


Illusions

by AvaKelly



Series: Phantasmagoria [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate POV of another story, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Needs a Hug, First Time, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Jarvis is omniscient, M/M, Nightmares, Oh the layers, Steve needs more than one hug, Steve's just as twisted as Hawkeye, Steve's more aware of Clint than of himself sometimes, Trafficking, Violence, a special sort of insanity, evil granny, mission, undercover op
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2451065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawkeye looks at him unblinking, unwinds his muscles with an upturn curl of a corner of his mouth that flashes a hint of teeth into the sunlight. He extends a hand, grips Steve's jaw a little too tight.</p><p>"<i>This</i> is what kills people," he warns, like he refuses to acknowledge it as part of him. It sends a pang of hurt through Steve, because Clint can see a lot, but how can he not realize that it's Clint speaking through Hawkeye's mouth? They are not separate, but of one being, killer and conscience. That is what makes them soldiers instead of murderers.<br/>--</p><p>Alternate telling of Ghosts from Steve's perspective.</p><p><b>Why you should read it</b>: It has about 3 extra chapters from Ghosts of the boys in the tower. Here we dive into what reality looks like for Steve, after the years in ice. The Cat was here.</p><p>UPDATE 24.08.2015: It is now fixed. Title changed to "Illusions". It's now perfectly interchangeable with Ghosts. Salad added.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [幻影](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8482456) by [terachiyuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/terachiyuu/pseuds/terachiyuu)



> Now beta'd by the extremely patient Lily the Cat. All our gratitude to her. Leave some cookies for her!
> 
> As difficult as it was to write Clint, putting myself in Steve's shoes is a hell of a lot harder. I must be a secret masochist or something.
> 
> Thank you for reading and encouragements! 
> 
> Poor Steve. :/

The gym is thankfully empty when Steve begins his workout. Well, workout would be stretching it a little, he just wants to pound on a bag while trying to set his thoughts in order. He concentrates on the thuds reverberating into the air, leveling his breathing until he gets a steady rhythm going. Another hit, another dull jab into his knuckles, and he unravels the things cycling through his mind. He's caught sight of Hawkeye again today, returning him to that state that makes him feel ruptured. So he restarts at the beginning, hoping with his entire being he'd be able to make sense of it this time around.

If he's truthful with himself (and he has to be, otherwise this thing, whatever it is, is going to tear him apart), he can admit that wherever the problem lies, it's probably connected to something he's shoved so deep inside, that he needs to dig into painful places. So he turns his mind to the scrawny boy with too big a mouth that wouldn't shut up even under the threat of physical damage. It wouldn't have been a problem, back then, if it were just that. He could always, and still can, fight for his values. It's where those values had started that makes up the raw wound inside. He'd have thought that it would heal over with his enhanced body, but the new century has just screwed him over, it seems. Add to that the horrific years in between, and he's a mess. He knows he is.

Steve takes a deep breath, flexes his fingers before resuming the punishing rhythm.

So. He's always been small, skinny, aching, and physically weak, which meant not being taken seriously, with _anything_ \- not with his ability to provide for a future family, not his ability to fight for his mouth, not even his ability to breathe on his own. Nothing that had been displayed on his outside even came close to mirroring what he'd been inside. It had been pounded into him, again and again. He used to be the convenient quick fumble in the sheets or back alleys because he'd seemed nonthreatening to the fellas and who'd even believe that _any_ dame would step out on her man with _Steve_ of all people? He's been always kept hidden by those seeking him out, a shameful secret, his mouth wanted, but not for talking. He'd give in, because it had always been better than not being acknowledged _at all_.

He shakes his head. Looking back, he can't believe he'd let it happen, and he feels ridiculous for it, maybe more than a little cheap. But it's a matter of the past, and like it or not, it's part of him now. Even so, it doesn't erase the bitter taste he always gets in his mouth when he thinks back of how _none_ of those had wanted to sit down, talk, share time and laughter, actually _be_ with Steve. None of them had even cared who Steve really was.

Bucky had known Steve inside and out, to the last fiber of his being. And he'd poked and jabbed, but his teasing and help had never been malicious. He had been his closest friend, his brother, and he'd always insist he had a dame for Steve, dragging him out, making him try. When those dates had inevitably failed, Bucky'd pretend they were both virgins waiting for that special one, soothing in a way only Bucky could be.

The last straw had been the army, and after fighting constant bullying his entire life, he'd needed to make a difference, to be given a chance to _prove_ his worth, to be allowed to _show_ others what he's really made of. Denied, over and over, until Erskine had _seen_ him. It had been exhilarating, and he'd been so happy to work for the chance. During training, he'd gotten mad at his body for betraying him, but he'd pushed himself, and it had made him euphoric in a way he hadn't felt before then.

It had ended, with Erskine's death and his new body, found himself judged again by his shapes and forms. He'd been stupid, accepting the tour, but it hadn't actually been a choice between being locked up and being displayed to the world, like a doll. In a way, both had meant a sort of prison, but in the end he had escaped.

For a while, he had been a soldier, and it had fit him like a glove. He'd never been a saint, Howard had helped in setting his mind straight after a couple of mishaps, and he'd accepted this new _him_ that had developed, matured, found a path. He had been proud of it, the soldier in him, his capacity to cause pain, suffering and chaos, then to walk away and still believe in justice, value equality, still able to love. Peggy.

Steve stops, leans heavily on the bag, gulping air in large breaths. It's not time for Peggy yet. He shoves the memories aside and returns to himself.

JARVIS had told him once how people like to make lists of goods and bads, so he tries to do that. Only he has himself to cut in half and put in the columns. He stops and looks at his hands, palms upturned, counts on fingers, left hand - small body, big body - and right hand - big mouth, big dreams... oh. Oh, he's been stupid. As it all starts to come together in his head, he realizes he needs Peggy for it make sense.

Apart from Erskine, it had been only Bucky and Peggy to know the real Steve, the one that had never been visible. He had been at his happiest with them, when, even after the serum, he had been the same Steve for them. He had loved Bucky as a brother, and he had loved Peggy beyond all else. He still does, but it's something thrumming mutedly at the edges of his consciousness that feeds his drive to wake up in the morning (he loves all the Peggies that had been his, though now is not the time to fall into _that_ beehive, so he leaves it be). It's not enough, he realizes.

The Peggy from long ago lies sickened, her memories in frail tatters. It's not the Peggy he needs, not the one that _knows_ him, no matter how often her days are good and remembrance sparks. Otherwise, he'd be there with her, age be damned.

Steve is completely alone. There's this crushing void around him that pulls at his insides in a simulacrum of physical pain. Every single one of his friends, _his family_ , is gone, leaving him stranded in this new world. Steve doesn't know how to create interactions anymore, and this hopelessness is swallowing his entire being.

So. He needs someone to _see_ him.

He needs to keep the cold at bay, to remember to exist.

Steve screws his eyes shut in the silence of the gym, willing away the sudden prickling behind his eyes. It's been here the entire time, the loneliness, clawing at his mind, and it's been there with such _hollowness_ , that he hasn't recognized it for what it was.

And Hawkeye, he draws in a shaky breath, Hawkeye _sees_. No wonder he'd wished for those eyes to look at him and discover what's hidden beyond the muscles and the bones. Hawkeye _sees_ a lot, and he arranges the board in a way that Steve can't, but is equally terrifying. He wants Hawkeye to _see_ Steve, but, he realizes, it's more than that.

He wants a connection. Could he dare hope that perhaps he might be cared for? And to cherish in return?

Yet, he has nothing else to offer but a used body and a shattered mind.

Steve in so much trouble... he lets out a broken half laugh. It should have been clear, from the way he's been obsessing. Oh, no, obsessing is putting it mildly, Steve has been what? Well, if he had a word, he wouldn't have been consumed with trying to understand himself for the past three weeks, would he?

The first time it happened his knees had gone weak and he had run away as fast as possible. Now, he just accepts it, how every time he catches even a glimpse of Hawkeye, he reverts to a blabbering idiot that can't tie two words together. Yet his mind keeps supplying him with images, sublime in their depravity, of Hawkeye laughing between rumpled sheets, against a wall moaning Steve's name, exposing his neck for access.

It's killing Steve, because Hawkeye never even smiles, so how is Steve supposed to bring him laughter? How, when he can't even stand to be in the same room with the other man without losing his voice, so he has no chance of even opening a conversation.

In the abysmal waters that had swallowed him everything had been clear, the illusions almost sentient in their relentlessness. Now, the screens between the perception of the world and the phantasmagoria of his mind are too thin, too imbued in frailty. They abandon Steve without warning, pushing in sinuous grooves through his daily life until there's no sense of _here_ or _there_. The chasm that should be separating the Hawkeye of his fantasies from the palpable person is missing. And Steve's afraid of losing his grasp of what's real and what's not, terrified that he might build a connection, but the real Hawkeye won't be on the other side of it. He's reluctant to get close and find that the laughter isn't real, paralyzed by the possibility of Hawkeye looking at Steve like he's a stranger.

At any moment, Steve's mind could play this cruel trick on him, of making Steve _believe_. Projecting this delirium on an unsuspecting Hawkeye would be an odious intrusion in the other man's world. Steve's at a loss. He wishes Peggy were here, she'd know what to do. She'd talk him out of this mess, she'd show him how to better himself.

The prickling is back and he can feel his cheeks heating with the effort to keep the tears at bay. So he runs as fast as he can, jumps into the shower, clothes strewn haphazardly around his bedroom. Under the scalding water is the only place where he can let go, the only time when he doesn't feel his tear tracts are freezing open, shooting shards of sharp pain into his eyes, eyelids stuck wide apart, forcing him to watch the never ending darkness.

He wishes beyond hope that something will end this place he's stuck in, the monster that's gnawing from inside at him, trying to turn him into nothingness, whispering that he'll never be anything more than marble on a pedestal, erased from reality. He wishes Peggy were here.

He crawls into bed without bothering with clothes, shivers despite the blankets. And finally Peggy comes, she's gentle as always, holds him in her arms, tells him his suffering is over. But just like always, she's turning cold in the arctic water, and he asks for her warmth one last time. One last time, he has her, before her body stiffens with the frost, before her eyes lose their life. This time, though, she stays, warm again, soft and reassuring under his aching body. So he revels in it, takes comfort in the blessed numbness that follows.

~

Steve wakes up. He wakes up surrounded with warmth, oblivious ache in his bones that makes him stretch with a smile on his lips. He wants to keep waking up like this. Then something shifts and there's a body underneath him. It takes him a few seconds to raise himself, awareness tricking slowly in, eyes slowly focusing on... Hawkeye. In his bed. Looking for all that's sacred like he'd been pounded through the mattress. It's a good look on him, Steve thinks with sudden fondness, until he registers the solid feel of fabric against his palms, skin against his skin.

He's done it, he's finally cracked. His mind is rushing, the last flicker of hope sizzling out, because there is _no way in hell_ that Hawkeye's going to trust him now. Steve can't remember, _can't_ , what happened. Was it real, _is it real now_ , and it's bringing tears back to his eyes, his frantic mind trying to latch on to reality, _what happened_ , but it's too much, he must be dreaming, _what happened_ , and Hawkeye's _looking_ at him, _what do you see_ , and Steve is finally too insane to exist, and there's cold water _everywhere_ , and his eyes hurt and his throat's closing up and he can't breathe and--

Hot, scalding. He focuses on the way it burns his skin, like it should burn Steve completely. Erase him.

He doesn't really know how long he stays there, mind blissfully blank, rubbing at his eyes, before the sobs subside. He's struck with how important it is for him right now to find Hawkeye, apologize for ruining their rapport, even if it had been just a hope in Steve's mind. More so, he needs to know exactly what happened, if Steve's turned himself into a dirty fumble again. How did he lure Hawkeye in bed, what did he offer of himself for the night? Would he be invisible again, that shameful fuck that doesn't deserve one proper conversation? Without Hawkeye's trust in his fellow team mate, it would all might just turn into grim, desolate reality.

So he dresses, slowly and painfully as the burns on his skin mend, and finds Hawkeye in the kitchen, table set for two. There's a pang of hope trying to poke at him, and Steve squishes it. He's undeserving until he _knows_.

But Hawkeye doesn't look upset chewing slowly and watching Steve as he stands there. Chest bare and skin exposed, he looks comfortable to be half naked in front of Steve. He says nothing for a long while, so Steve figures he should start, and blurts the first thing that's been pressing on his mind.

"I'm sorry," he has to swallow to push the words past his dry throat, "I had no right to vio--" he's startled by the loud clang of fork against plate and he suddenly doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Don't insult me," and now Hawkeye sounds mad, "sit the fuck down and eat the food I made for you," very mad as he points a fork at Steve, like a threat.

He almost trips on his own feet, before his brain catches up and this is not at all how he'd imagined it would go. His hands are shaking. He _needs_ to know. Why is there coffee all over his hand?

"I'm a trained assassin," Hawkeye says and Steve spills even more from the mug, but the sting of hot liquid against his fingers calms his frayed thoughts a little and he's able to register the rest of the words. "What I mean is that you didn't force me to do anything, I chose to help you, consciously and without coercion. Steve--" Hawkeye's voice breaks with something Steve's too busy with comprehension to decipher right now.

His hands moves up, covering his mouth and he struggles to breath through his palms, slow and steady, and it almost feels like an asthma attack. There is a whole new dimension for the hope that's flooding him and he can't even _begin_ to try and fight it. He sees the pieces moving around on the board, but no plan in sight, not yet. He needs more information, because this? This is him being only _a little_ insane, and being still _himself_ , and he's not going to lose this battle. He still doesn't understand what he's seen in Hawkeye other than his eyes so far, but there is clearly more to him, like there is more to Steve.

"Eat up," comes next, and Steve snaps out of it, hurries to ask everything at once.

"What-- How-- Why would you thi--" and the bastard's _smirking_ at him and he fumbles for words.

"Eat and I'll tell you," he says instead.

Steve doesn't understand why Hawkeye's trying to feed him of all things, and it's surprising him that he'd want Steve's company. So Steve obeys and the eggs are delicious. He insists on cleaning up, least he can do, giving himself some time to re-order his hectic thoughts while Hawkeye grabs a shower for himself.

He still doesn't have all the facts of the past night, but it looks like his first reaction has been ridiculously over the top. He doesn't chastise himself, because that terrifying thought has allowed him to actually spend time, albeit quiet, with Hawkeye. It's encouraging, that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to _talk_ to the man, befriend him if nothing more.

"We're going out," comes from the doorway and that's not at all what Steve's been waiting for as he catches the cap flying at him.

"You promised to tell me--" he starts and gets swiftly cut off.

"I will, but afterwards," comes back with a wave of hand, "we're going outside, and please, fucking please with cherry on top, come with me."

Out there means more people, more distractions, so maybe there could be more than awkward silence between them. Steve thinks he can do this. "Ok," he nods.

"It was my hand," Hawkeye says after drawing in a large breath, and wiggles his fingers at Steve, "I stroked you and that was it. Less than a minute."

Wait. What? How? But. No. How? What. He's at a loss, thrown for a loop. "You," he finally manages, half a question, half an answer he's giving to himself.

"Steve," and his name is fitting on those lips, air pushing the sounds out, "you were not really there, and I know my own nightmares are bad, but--"

Wait a minute. Actually, wait a second until Steve's world crumbles and reconstructs itself. Wait a fraction of a moment until Steve realizes that the man in front of him is not Hawkeye.

It's Clint Barton.

And how can he desire to be seen, when he's been denying _Clint_ the same? It hits him, this clarity, but he doesn't have time to dwell on it before he's being dragged out into the sun. Everything feels warmer, somehow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I lack knowledge of 40's speech style, so I'm improvising. I don't think it's enough.
> 
> Anyway, ideas on a city that we can replace Kuala Lumpur with? Like Frankfurt. Or something. I don't even know.

They make their way out through the silent tower and Steve misses having a closely knit team by his side, Avengers scattered around the world and outside of it. SHIELD's been sending him courtesy updates, Tony Stark in Malibu, Agent Romanov in Kuala Lumpur on a SHIELD mission, Thor somewhere in his home realm. It's been just him, Dr. Banner, and Clint in the tower. Since Thor left with the Tesseract and Loki, they've been together in this massive building, but so separate that there hasn't been an actual sense of camaraderie between them.

Steve follows Clint quietly into the streets, too distracted by the events of the morning to pay much attention. It jars him, how ashen Clint actually looks, and it's no surprise that he hasn't noticed before. Steve hadn't been able to look him in the face, not really. Clint looks tired like a man on the verge of collapsing from self imposed exhaustion. Steve knows this, he's been there before, and he's come out of it relatively unscathed, so he _can_ help Clint. It's not a stretch that Steve _wants_ to help, and it sickens Steve that such a talented man is close to being brought to his knees for doing what must be done to protect others. Steve's seen Clint's file, at least what parts of it Fury'd deemed relevant, as part of Steve's new team, and some of what he's learned has struck a chord long rusted.

When Stark's boy had tricked - yes, _tricked_ is the right word for it - him into taking residence in the tower, Steve had been beyond reluctant. He hadn't wanted a team just to lose it again. But then he'd gotten to know them, albeit only from dusty and censored files. The glimpses he'd gotten had been enough for Steve to want to surround himself with the Avengers, each and every single one of them special and beautifully twisted.

Steve doesn't think that he's been a particularly good man in his life, but he takes pride in what he is, what he believes in, what he stands for. And he knows that carrying the burden of ensuring a future for many to the detriment of the few can take a toll on one's spirit. But this is how the world works, blurred in gray. It's the hardship of men like Steve and Clint to dive into the darkness, so the virtuous can live out their bright happy lives.

Steve wants Clint to see this truth about himself.

He's startled out of his thoughts when he mechanically sits down next to Clint, and takes in the park around them. It's sunny, people scattered around, not too close, not very far either. These people have survived because lives were lost (the Chitauri were creatures, too), and it's an unwarranted and shameful punishment to let the soldiers drown in guilt.

He doesn't know how to begin telling Clint all of this. So Steve sits there and takes in the way Clint half sprawls on the bench next to him.

"Look, you don't have to count this as your first time, so stop fretting over it," he hears suddenly and it's so far out of what Steve's been mulling over, that he turns around, frown forming on his face.

It takes a second to understand what Clint's talking about. "It wasn't my first time."

Steve's a little confused as to where that particular thought had sprouted from, but then Clint's relieved when he mumbles "Oh, thank fuck," and Steve leaves it be. Clearly the morning has rattled Clint as well.

Speaking of rattle, Steve should probably explain _something_. He vaguely remembers Peggy during the night, but now he realizes it must have been _Clint_ warm and gentle in his bed. He stifles a sigh. Steve's nights have been anything but restful, caught between awareness and the visceral sense of frost. It bleeds into the days, sometimes, and he often finds himself searching for flying cars.

"So, then... why the freak out?" Clint speaks again and Steve forces his attention back to the present.

"Freak out," he repeats, 'cos he's heard it before, he's sure of it, but sometimes he just can't keep up with all the new words of this new world.

"Crying like a baby in the shower," comes back like a jab right into an open wound and Steve can't stop the groan coming out of his throat.

He rubs at his face trying to wipe away the ghost memory of painful ice holding his eyes open for decades. "You are an asshole," he declares. Because Clint is, for bringing this up.

"Been told so," and a finger pokes at Steve's shoulder, leaving behind a bright spot of heat, "but if a little hand to dick between friends doesn't let us tease each other, I don't know what would."

Steve's tight muscles relax at the familiarity of it. He's missed this sort of playful teasing, and he can't help but _hope_. It shakes him to the core, settling him with finality, because Steve knows how to do this. He knows how to court, and maybe that's what he should have been doing all along, offer Clint respect, a chance to see Steve as he is, tiny steps to build a thread between them, be funny and charming (thank you, Bucky) and win him over, instead of being afraid to get close lest his insanity poisons Clint.

He keeps his voice level, giving Clint the only explanation he can at the moment. "When I woke up, you looked so blissful, like you've had a good night, and I couldn't remember any of it, so I guess a few bad thoughts crossed my mind." More than a few, Steve thinks, but he doesn't want to scare Clint away.

"Sure of ourselves, aren't we," Clint teases again, and Steve rolls his eyes, hiding how grateful he is that Clint's not dwelling on the details.

"I'm unforgettable," he's not ashamed admitting. Steve is, _had_ been unforgettable, even before the serum, only that nobody had actually wanted to recognize him in the eyes of the world. "But you're missing the point," he adds, because apparently he likes digging his own grave. Repeatedly.

"No, no, I don't think so, tell me more," Clint's amused.

Steve shakes his head in disbelief, half at the ease with which he can talk to Clint, half at the way it heats up his spine with a sort of _want_ that calls for shared spaces and comfort instead of physical satisfaction. If he hadn't been sure before, he is now, of how he wants genuine affection, to give and receive. It crushes him, liberating in a way that sends a spike of trepidation into the base of his skull.

Courting wouldn't be enough, he needs to tell Clint the extent of the damage he'd be offering together with anything else. _Before_ anything else. It's best Clint severs himself from Steve before Steve can wholly attach himself to Clint.

"Under the ice, I was awake," he confesses.

Clint stills, his last drawn breath not coming back out for long seconds, and Steve has a moment to steel himself for the questions and the disbelief. There's a shudder in Clint's body next to him, before he rasps out, barely audible, "How are you sane."

"I'm not really," Steve says, truthfully, because of course Clint would go right to the core of the matter. "Most times I think I'm still dreaming," he explains, "I used to imagine the future, you know, to fill the hours, but there were always flying cars. I still have to remind myself I'm awake and I keep looking at the things beyond what I could've imagined." He pulls out his phone, fumbles with it, to give his own hands something to do, and almost drops it when Clint's hand grabs at his shoulder, digs painfully in the muscle there. It's burning, the heat of it against Steve's t-shirt. "It was dark," he starts, but doesn't really know how to continue, because those three little words say more than Steve could write in a two volume book.

Steve looks at Clint from the corner of his eye, waits patiently, but Clint's not running, not calling SHIELD to drag him away in a straitjacket. He's just sitting there, comprehension on his face of what it must have been like stuck in the cold, and Steve feels a pang of hurt wrapped in a stab of relief that someone finally understands.

"How unforgettable," Clint finally asks, and Steve can give him that, the light teasing. If Steve were in Clint's place right now, he'd need a week or two to work this sort of thing over, so he pushes everything else aside, smiles to himself.

"Come back to my bed so I can do you proper," he offers.

But instead of the laughter he's expecting, Clint looks like he's choking on air. It pleases him, though, that Clint seems to have misunderstood Steve's seriousness, and he doesn't take the joke back. He _does_ mean it, though he could have been more tactful about it, even if Clint's face frozen in surprise is warming something in Steve's bones.

"What, no dinner first?" Clint asks, and Steve wants to kiss him silly for how bravely he's trying to salvage himself, "I think I'm worth at least some flowers."

Right! Clint definitely is! It's fortunate that there's a flower vending cart off to the side and Steve's up and jogging to it without waiting a beat. He chooses a lily that catches his attention and runs back to the bench, grinning.

Clint looks hunched in on himself, though, like he wouldn't believe he's worth it, and Steve stops in his tracks. He drops the flower in Clint's lap and the startled look he receives is confirmation enough. He suddenly _needs_ to fix this, make Clint understand he's human, the same as Steve. He sits back down, facing Clint.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks, as gently as he can.

"Last night," Clint says, and even Steve knows that's not a lie, but not the truth he's after, either.

"And before that?" he asks again, waits patiently.

"I crashed after the fight," Clint says after a long inhale, "and woke up screaming. Couldn't, after." His voice is barely there, a mere whisper, but Steve can hear what he's saying, _knows_ the feeling.

He also knows that a park bench is not the place to ask for more, so he lets it be, for now. There will be time later. It pleases Steve, fills him with warmth, how Clint's trusted him enough to open himself. Another image invades his mind, Steve being given that trust in the comfort of his bedsheets, bringing him that direly sought connection. This glimmer of hope makes Steve feel less like a shameful secret and more like a normal being, with normal desires. He's infinitely calmer than the day before, and if half teasing Clint with his intentions is the way for it, then he's going to do it gladly. It's filling Steve with anticipation.

"You seem way too calm about this man in your bed thing," Clint breaks the silence and Steve shrugs.

"I learned the hard way how the person's important, not their shape and form."

"Is this a real invitation," he hears Clint say, wobbly question breathed out through his lips.

The way it's asked makes Steve consider his answer carefully. He needs to keep Clint close, needs to confirm he's serious, but can't impose or force.

"If you want it to be, but it doesn't have to," he says. "I slept better than I had in months last night and I don't think I'm mistaken to assume you have as well?" He surprises himself with this idea, but it's the best one he's had lately, a way to help them both. "We can just share the bed and nothing more."

There's an aborted sound, Clint's clearing his throat, and then it comes. "Yeah."

It's frail, but Steve will take it, and he lets the corners of his mouth turn up, content with the answer.

"I think Stark put a lumpy old mattress in my room," Clint tries to jest, ridiculously fake, and it makes Steve's smile widen. "I never had sex a guy," comes before he can answer.

Well that explains that. It doesn't change anything, so Steve bumps Clint's boot with his shoe.

"Not as scary as it sounds," he offers and Clint shakes his head as if he's rearranging his view of Steve in his head.

"Aren't you full of surprises," he stops and then looks straight at Steve, sharply, "did you really think - how did you try to put it - that you _violated_ me?"

 _What._ No, fuck, don't go there.

"No, asshole, I was trying to apologize for violating _your trust_."

Clint's cheeks flush, and he looks delicious as he mumbles an apology.

"Sorry, you're just so damn... proper," he waves a hand in front of Steve.

"Peggy taught me a lot of spy things," he laughs, because his first lesson had been about why it's good to let people underestimate Steve. Clint doesn't look amused, so Steve sobers. "I dreamed about her last night, didn't I?"

A nod.

"It's just a ghost of many, Clint," he says, trying to soothe both of them. It's the first time he's calling Clint by his name and he's surprised at how well it fits on his lips.

"I know ghosts."

Steve catches his eyes. Of course Clint knows ghosts, just like Steve knows nightmares. He's uncovering so much of Clint, it almost frightens him where this might end, what it might do to him. It still doesn't change anything.

"I'd like to try," he declares, and steals a touch, fingertip on Clint's hand, before pulling him up. "Come on, I'm starving."

Clint follows, and Steve says nothing about the way he's holding onto the flowers, white knuckled.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve is a little overwhelmed by the sinuous events of the day, and by the time they get back to the tower, Clint's walking a little numbly by his side, so he suggests a little gym time. They're going to have chinese later, together, and Steve smiles to himself.

He's relaxed as he starts his routine. Despite the start of the day, Steve feels like something has shifted in the desperation that usually infuses his hours. He's been pretty much out of sorts ever since the battle, fighting with himself and the memories that unroot reality until he's unsure if what he's seeing is a figment of his imagination or the present. Clint feels real, though, and Steve wants little place for himself, burrowed inside his soul.

He'd asked in no uncertain terms, and Clint had understood, so Steve is determined to wait as long as necessary. He allows himself to hope, but he knows he needs to pace himself. There's always a chance he'll be rejected and he doesn't think it will be that pleasant--

There's a sharp stab of pain in his knuckles as he hits the bag and he draws his hand, finds two fingers dislocated. He frowns at his hand for a few seconds before pulling on the bones, setting them back. It aches until it doesn't, but he's being careless, so he decides to stop the session.

"JARVIS," he calls into the air.

"Food?" JARVIS asks and Steve mock-shudders with a smile.

"Terrifying voices," he says instead and there's a sound coming from the speakers that's close enough to a laugh, so Steve grins widely. JARVIS has been Steve's closest to human contact lately, and he's learned a few things about the disembodied fella. "Care to guess what we want?"

There's a long pause and then "Thai, Captain."

"Chinese," he corrects and JARVIS plays a "tsk" sound.

"Should I offer congratulations?"

Yes, thank you, hit where it hurts, Steve thinks and rolls his eyes at the ceiling. "Not yet."

"By my estimations, it will be between twelve and twenty days before--"

"Whoa there!" Steve waves his arms, cutting JARVIS off.

"As you wish," comes back and there's an almost bored tinge to it. "Do you want me to order condoms for you, Captain?"

Steve groans. "You are an awful..." he moves his hand in a circular motion at the wall, "...thing!"

As he moves to leave the gym, JARVIS plays back a recording of a laughter from a movie he's made Steve watch. Steve doesn't hold back his amusement.

He doesn't realize he's been looking for Clint until he finds him in the pool, submerged in water, so he sits down and removes the forgotten tape from around his fingers. Clint comes up once for a breath, goes back down, turned away from Steve. So Steve takes the time to follow the lines of Clint's body, at least what he can grasp from above the pool.

There's a moment when he's still not entirely sure he isn't dreaming, because... oh, hell. He's going to run himself in circles. Clint is real, this place is real, there are no flying cars and there's still a bit of lingering ache in his knuckles.

Clint breaks out of the water, heavy breaths moving his chest, and all Steve wants is to crack open his shell, learn him out, unburden him of his pain. Clint turns around, looks at Steve for a long moment.

"Water's heated," he mumbles, and Steve wants to laugh at how soothing this actually is, to have Clint care enough to spare him of cold memories.

"I know," he replies and the wave of want that keeps washing over him in Clint's presence rushes through him again. "Come up here," he adds before he can stop himself.

Clint halts a hand's reach away and it takes Steve quite a bit of control to not extend his arm, touch. "I asked JARVIS to send after the meal," he says instead, "come to my room to eat?"

It's met with a nod and Steve lets his lips part freely in a smile. The day, evening now, is getting better.

~

Somebody delivers take out containers when Steve's in the shower, and he keeps wondering how JARVIS manages that, if he's got human helpers or if he just floats the food like Howard's been trying to float his cars.

There's a knock on the door, and then Clint's back in his room, sitting on his bed. He insists on some cartoons of cats and mice that are making Steve laugh. There's a calmness to the silence between them that Steve's enjoying, but he can't stop himself from watching Clint, from memorizing the lines of his face, the color of his irises, the way his lips press around the chopsticks, the movements of his fingers. And the way he's not eating, just taking half bites here and there in between swirling the cartons and shuffling them around on their tray, so he turns down the volume, shift his body so he can see Clint better, wonders where to start.

But Clint notices and startles slightly under the attention.

"You're also not eating?" Steve finally asks and raises his finger to point at his temple. "I thought I was the one twisted in the head."

It's met with a snort and Clint gives up eating altogether. "Don't worry about me, ok?" he says and Steve detests how it sounds, hopeless.

"Why not?"

Clint clearly doesn't like the questions, Steve can see that, but he needs to know, needs to start this if he's going to help Clint.

"I killed a lot of people," Clint shrugs.

Yeah, sure, who didn't? "Uh-huh... I did, too. War, remember?"

"I got paid to shoot people in the head," comes back without Clint waiting a beat, as if he _wants_ Steve to despise him, as if Steve were that much different, and by extension, that much better than Clint.

"You think I didn't?" He points at his enhanced body. Steve's going to win this, no matter what horrors he needs to reveal of himself to make it happen.

"Some of them were innocent," Clint insists and looks away. Steve wants to beat the stubbornness out of him.

"So, what, you're not worth it?" He keeps his voice low, no matter how he wants to shout until he's heard. Clint looks exhausted and Steve can't put more strain on him. "You also saved a lot of people," he moves his hand, tries to encompass everyone they've protected during the invasion, though he knows it must have been much more with Clint's work at SHIELD.

"It doesn't balance out," he says and Steve almost screams, awash with remembrance of his own past struggles. "Just forget about it, Rogers."

So they're back to last names. He rubs his hands over his face, shifts on the bed, buys himself time to come with a retort by removing the tray, and manages to knock the breath out of his lungs when he settles against the headboard.

"Clint," he says and waits until Clint turns around, looks at Steve, meets his eyes as if nothing Steve will say is going to change anything. "I was never," what, a good man? No, that's not the way to go. "In my early days with the Commandos, we were in a village somewhere in France. Very few people were left there and all starving. I gave my ration to a dirty little boy. Found him later that day trying to get the food back from an older boy. He was bigger and pushing the little one around. I just... punched him."

He takes a deep breath, opens his hands with the memory.

"His neck snapped. Clean break. Dead in moments."

There, he's said it, his first innocent.

"You're serious," Clint breathes with disbelief.

"Yes. He was innocent, and he wasn't the only one that died because of me. Others got in the line of fire and it was unavoidable. For a while I was bad, but Howard helped me out of it." Steve's lips curl at that, Stark's view of the world still strong in his mind. "He made up a fake journal recounting the heroic deeds of one Captain America, funniest thing I ever read."

"I think they wrote the history books after it," and Clint looks like he's choking and coughing and Steve thinks he's reached him.

"That would explain so much," he muses.

"But you didn't kill them in cold blood."

It suddenly makes Steve mad. He refuses to give up, so he'll show Clint the killer in Steve, the executioner that never thinks twice before attacking, that never regrets.

"We are Avengers, that means someone's destroying what we care for, irreversibly, and then we go after them to do worse."

They survive because there's a balance between the violence and the morality of their lives, and Clint clearly is at a point where he can't accept these two sides of himself. He moves to his knees, comes as close as he dares, lips almost touching Clint's ear.

"This HYDRA colonel ," Steve confesses, "he killed a stray dog we've been feeding for months, and I took his head off. No tribunal, no justice. I threw the shield and it cut right through his neck, stuck in the wall behind. Head was still staring open eyes at me, on top of it."

Clint is silent, but his chest is heaving, so Steve stays as still as possible. This is it, the moment when Clint will either run, or stay and let Steve care for him.

Finally, Clint slumps over, rests his forehead on Steve's shoulder, burning through his t-shirt. "I dream of Loki and the spear" he whispers, and Steve snakes a hand up, holds tightly onto Clint's neck, urging him on. "Sometimes it goes through my heart instead of Coulson's."

It's enough, Steve thinks. It's the core of the matter, the thing that's plaguing Clint, so there's a point to start. He pushes Clint down on his back, curls upside down around him, rests his head on Clint's chest and it sends a shiver down his spine at how Clint _lets_ him.

"I dream of dreams," he offers back, more a reward than a confession, "of my eyes freezing open, of darkness, of silence."

Steve closes his eyes, listens to Clint's heartbeat slow behind his ribcage, before a hand rests warmly against his cheek, and fingers card through his hair. Clint's staying, so Steve dares grab his free hand, hugs it between his arms, pressed closely to Steve's own chest.

The want inside of Steve diffuses into a sort of warmth that crawls into his bones with pleasant ache. Clint's hand curls gradually into his t-shirt, tiny bit by tiny bit as the minutes pass. There's a whisper of a sniffle and the hand in his hair disappears before coming back, fingers slightly wet against his forehead.

"Babies are only meant to cry in the shower," he says, lets a smile stretch his lips, and Clint barks out a half laugh.

"Who's the asshole now?" he asks, voice rough.

"You are still the asshole," Steve opens his eyes, shifts up and wipes at Clint's cheeks. He wants to kiss him so badly, he almost doesn't catch himself in time. "Don't worry," he grins, "you're still pretty with red eyes."

Clint laughs again, more easily this time. "Flattery will get you everywhere," he mumbles.

"Right now I just want it to get you in my bed," Steve says, and stops for a moment, unsure. But Clint just nods and paws at the cover until he's bundled inside and Steve's still watching from above. "Hey!"

"You gotta work for it," Clint smirks at him and scoots his blanket cocoon away, but lets Steve peels him out of it after he wraps an arm around.

There's fumbling and shuffling and Steve ends up with an armful of archer, Clint's forehead pressed tightly against Steve's collarbone.

"You bet I will," Steve promises and it draws a small shiver out of Clint.

The bed is warm, Clint's breaths evening out after a while, and Steve lets his hands shake as they grasp at cotton over flesh. The evening before, he'd gone to nightmare riddled sleep with desperation deep in his bones, but in just twenty four hours, his world got turned around and Steve prays he's not dreaming. He presses a trembling kiss on top of the head cradled against his chest and looks up to see Peggy smiling at him.

She's wrapped up in sheets, lounging on the bed with her head resting against her palm, hair in disarray. She has gray strands flowing away from her temples, and her other hand is resting her favorite fountain pen against an open notebook in front of her. This Peggy is a teacher, they've met after the war, fell in love and built a quiet life for themselves. She removes her glasses, a small "hello" forming on her lips.

"Hi," he whispers, arms tightening around Clint.

Peggy leans toward them, places a soft kiss on Steve's lips, then settles back. She moves her hand, strokes Clint's hair, gentle as always.

"He's damaged," she says, but there's no malice behind her words. No, it's like she's warning him, not _against_ Clint, but _for_ him.

"So am I," Steve whispers.

"I know, love."

There's banging in the kitchen across the hall, the voices of their children heavy with laughter fading away slowly in the morning sunlight.

Steve feels rested, despite the way the night seems to have passed, in the blink of an eye. In his arms, Clint stirs, a sound escaping his lips as he wakes. He pulls at Steve's arm until his face is hidden from the light.

"Good morning," Steve says, and is rewarded with a string of mumbles that could never pass for words. "Would you like some coffee?" he asks.

"Nhhng!" comes in disagreement and Clint's burrowing closer.

"Well," Steve laughs, "I must have done something incredible to you last night if you lost your voice."

"What?" Clint half rolls to look at him, wide awake, and it makes Steve laugh harder. "You're evil," he says before Steve gets a mouthful of pillow for his efforts.

"Coffee?" Steve asks again as he follows a yawning Clint out of bed.

"Mhm, could use some."

Clint stretches as he walks, but then he stops and turns, leans into Steve, resting his forehead against the skin of his neck. "Thank you," he says and it's not for the coffee offer.

Steve wraps his arms Clint shoulders, pulls him closer.

"Anytime," his voice breaks, and if Clint notices, he says nothing.

It's a whole new day in a whole new, warm, world.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did google the history of 'blowjob'. (-_-)
> 
> [Clicky](http://intermittently-ava.tumblr.com/post/127497937612/the-salad-from-illusions-lettuce-iceberg) for the salad.

Breakfast is toast, black coffee, and Clint keeping close to Steve, permeating the space naturally, making Steve relax. There's a slightly healthier color to Clint's skin, but it's not enough. He yawns into his hand when he thinks Steve's not looking, his movements a bit sluggish, and there's still more than half a slice left on Clint's plate. Steve breathes through his nose, one deep inhale, one rushing exhale.

"You need more sleep," he says, and Clint looks at him with desperation shadowing his eyes. Steve levels a pointed stare at him, and god, it still surprises him how badly he wants to care for Clint.

"Yeah," comes in admission after a long pause.

Steve smiles at him encouragingly, and Clint huffs, rubs at his temples, then rests his face in his palms.

"When you said you--" Clint looks up and rolls his wrist, "when you had this problem," he looks like he's tasting lemons, "what did you dream, I mean... ugh," he slumps down in his seat and frowns at his plate, poking the toast with his finger.

It's quite a lot to ask, but Clint is asking, and Steve would give him even more than a retelling of a memory.

"There was an unfortunate hit I did once," he says and rests his elbows on the table, crosses his forearms, "when the shield took a soldier's face off. Well, it scraped skin and flesh from his chest all the way to his scalp." Steve shudders with it, swallows coffee to warm his dry throat. Clint's movements have stilled across from him at the table. "And I started dreaming of everyone I've ever hurt, and I'd see their faces melt until only bone and blood was left. I'd have this knife and I'd start cutting off slices of them, like you do steak, you know."

Clint's eyes are closed under the deep frown knitting his eyebrows, and he sits there drawing air in small bits, as if he's going to lose the breakfast he's had.

"I'm sorry," Steve whispers, barely daring to break the silence, but then Clint's eyes are boring into his. There's a whole new level of raw anguish in them and Steve's stomach twists itself painfully.

There are warm hands closing around one of his, and Clint tugs at it to the center of the table where he can rest his forehead on it. The muscles of his shoulders bunch and tighten as he shakes.

"He pulled me out of myself," he croaks wetly against Steve's fingers, "robbed me of my will. Whatever anyone's done to me, they never-- I could _fight_ , decide for my own to give in or not."

Steve moves his free hand, cards his fingers through Clint's hair.

"They broke everything I had, but not _me._ Not inside. And now--"

There's a tremor in Clint's exhale that's raising goosebumps all over Steve's skin.

"You survived him," he says, but Clint's shaking his head, so Steve fists his hand in the short hair, pulls sharply at his head. "You. Survived. And you're stronger for it."

He adds a shake for good measure and Clint doesn't even wince. "Are you sure?" he whispers instead, eyes unfocused.

"Yes."

Steve lets his fingers relax, massages underneath them until Clint's gaze sharpens, bores into him as if trying to uncover a lie, a betrayal. Steve holds it, he truly believes what he's saying and wants Clint to read that on him.

There's a sigh so soft, Steve might have missed it if he weren't absorbed by Clint's expressions, then Clint unwinds.

"If you say so," he murmurs, so Steve lets go, removes his hand. "I have to--" he adds, pointing at the door with an aborted gesture and is up the chair and out of the kitchen.

Steve feels his face fall. Too much, too soon, and is lost for a moment, looking at the swinging door, unsure what to do next. But a hand grabs at the edge of the wood, and Clint's head pops back in.

"You coming?" he asks and waits expectantly.

He almost spills coffee on himself in surprise and of course Clint sees it, judging by the tiny smirk he's showing. Steve throws him a dirty look.

"That was for pulling my hair," Clint says and Steve lets out a huff.

"When someone pulls your hair, you should pull it back, not make them spill coffee on themselves."

Clint raises an amused eyebrow at him while they wait for the elevator. "Pull it back, you say."

"Yes," Steve makes himself sound as innocent as he can muster, "I'd even go down on my knees for it, since you're so short," he pats at Clint's head.

"You talk too much," Clint grumbles, smacks at his arm as they step into the cabin, and he pokes at a button.

"You could always give my mouth something else to do," he smiles, pleased with himself.

It takes a beat for that image to form in Clint's head, and then starts coughing. By the time the doors ping open, he's leaning on the wall, wheezing a little.

"Fucking menace," he croaks, "really didn't need to associate _that_ with a fucking national icon," and Steve's smile just widens.

At the far back of the gym there's a range, with a locked armory attached to it. They keep their weapons in there, even Steve's shield is safely tucked in a locker. They enter, and Clint pulls out a large case, places it closed on the table in the middle of the room. Steve watches his mood darken again as he opens the clasps and takes a deep breath.

Clint raises the lid of the case, revealing a bow and quiver inside, then leans with his palms on the edge of the table. He looks at the bow with longing mixed with disgust, and Steve's eyes widen when he realizes what's going on.

"Can't stand to use it," Clint says and it's confirmation enough.

"Because you killed SHIELD agents with it," Steve offers and receives a nod in return. He looks at Clint for a second, takes in the way he grips at the table white knuckled. "Let me ask you something, is this _your_ bow or is it Loki's?"

Clint shakes his head. "Used to be mine."

"Then take it back," Steve advises, but no reaction comes. "When was the last time you touched it?" he doesn't give up.

"After the fight. Cleaned it. Packed it."

It sounds like Clint _wants_ to use, but something is holding him back. Steve would be afraid he'd hurt the people fighting on his side if he were in Clint's place. It doesn't really matter _why_ Clint won't use it, because right now it's just something else Loki's taken from him, along with his free will and his restful sleep.

So Steve decides to push. He'll deal with the consequences later, but Clint _needs_ this and Steve's going to make it happen.

"Clint," he says, warning in his voice, "I'm going to take your hand and put it on the bow," punctuates every word.

He's been expecting at least reluctance, but Clint just nods, staring at the weapon. "Please," he whispers.

Steve complies, pulls gently at one of Clint's hands, makes him extend his fingers and then covers them with his own, presses into the edge of the bow. Clint tries to remove his hand, like it burns, but Steve holds him there, wraps Clint's fingers around it, pulls the weapon out.

"It would be my fault," he says quietly, and Clint's eyes snap up at him questioningly. "If you ever kill someone with the bow, it will be my fault," he explains, "for making you take it."

Clint's eyes go wider than Steve's seen them so far, his mouth in a small 'o', and he stays like that for a long while. Finally, Steve decides to break him out of it.

"I'll make a bet with you," he lets go and is pleased that Clint's still holding onto the bow.

"What bet," he asks and grabs the weapon with both hands, pulls it close to his chest.

"I bet you I can hit your flying arrow with my shield," Steve says and punches in the code to his locker, pulls it out.

Clint snorts. "Dream on, loverboy."

It makes Steve grin. "That's why we call it a bet."

"So what do we bet on?" comes after a minute, amusement back in Clint's voice.

"A kiss!"

"Hah," Clint barks out a laugh, "that's what _you_ 'd like to win, but what about me?"

Steve shakes his head, mocks wounded with his palm on his chest. "How about if you win, I'll do everything you tell me for the rest of the day," he offers.

"Like wash my socks anything?"

"Sure," Steve shrugs and Clint grins.

"You're on."

They shake on it, and then Clint gets his arm guard and gloves, carefully pulls one arrow out of the case and moves into the range, as if he intends to shoot once and be done with it. Steve can't have that, so grabs both his shield and the quiver, sets the arrows down next to Clint, and receives a raised eyebrow in return.

"Ready when you are," Clint says, pulls on the string, tightens his body as he takes stand, draws in a deep breath.

The space is open in front of them, only a couple of tables without separators filling the room at the edges, so Steve takes a step to the side, rests the shield on his toes facing Clint instead of the targets.

"Go," and the arrow's flying. He has a fraction of a second before seeing its trajectory and he pulls fast with his arm, lets go of the metal, making it spin on the release.

A clink and clang are heard as the shield hits the far wall before returning and Steve catches it, sets it down. Two pieces of arrow roll on the floor, filling the silence, as Clint relaxes his stance.

"Wow," he says, admiration in his voice, and Steve grins widely.

"I win," he declares with a bounce on his heels.

But Clint's smile falters at that, and no matter how much Steve wants to kiss him, he doesn't want his first one be forced, a game, a joke. So when Clint turns to him, he grabs Clint's hand, and places a quick peck on it.

Clint stares at him like he isn't real for long seconds before Steve picks up another arrow, hands it over.

"Hit the shield," he says, and throws.

There are four arrows in quick succession bouncing off the metal before it travels back, and Steve can't stop wondering at the speed of the hits. He receives a smug grin when he asks "again?"

"Bring it, grandpa," Clint chides and Steve rolls his eyes.

There's a rhythm as they throw and release, Clint relaxing into the motions, obviously pleased.

"I had grandchildren once," Steve says before jumping to catch the shield.

"Mm?" Clint fires first this time, and Steve hits the arrow again.

"I dreamed, under, that I married Peggy, and we had kids, and then they had kids... we were old and wrinkly and happy."

There's a beat and then Clint's shifting his stance, lowers the bow to look at him. Steve just shrugs. "Don't feel sorry for me."

"I won't," Clint whispers, then he retakes his position, draws. "Throw," he says.

They work up an appetite. Clint manages more than a few bites and Steve's pleased about it. After lunch, they return to the armory. Clint takes Steve through a crash course of modern weaponry, from ammo, recoil and range, to cleaning. They end up firing with a few more common choices in their field. Steve's not such a great shot, but he does fine and it wires him up enough to take a long run outside.

He's back when the sun sets, and worry grips him after he takes his shower and sits in his empty bedroom for half an hour. He's about to give up when his door opens and Clint's there with two forks and a huge bowl of something green and red and white.

[ ](http://intermittently-ava.tumblr.com/post/127497937612/the-salad-from-illusions-lettuce-iceberg)

It's the best salad Steve's ever eaten, and they end up watching cartoons until the sun comes up. JARVIS snaps them out of their sleepy haze when a video call request from Fury comes through. Clint groans, but moves to get changed, so Steve follows suit. Soon, they're in a small conference room, and Fury's glaring daggers from the large monitor mounted on the wall.

"Do you want to tell me," he pauses for effect, "why did I have to kill not one, but eight," and he holds fingers up in front of his face, "news stories about Captain America giving Hawkeye goddam flowers in a motherfucking park?"

Steve's first reaction is that it's none of Fury's business what they do in their free time, as the dislike he holds for the director rises, but Clint speaks first.

"What can I say, my blow jobs are flower worthy."

There's a twitch on Fury's face and whatever it is Clint's supposed to have done, it's cheeky enough to boost Fury's annoyance, so Steve adds to it, as genuinely as possible, hands behind his back in mockery of a parade rest.

"He _does_ do amazing blow jobs, sir," he nods.

It has the expected effect, and Fury's about to explode as he yells.

"Motherf-- Barton, why did you have. To. Break. Rogers."

The screen goes black, and Steve's satisfied with it, but he needs to know how to do it again if need be.

"What's a blow job?" he asks, though he has a niggling suspicion it's something intimate.

But Clint's suddenly laughing so hard, he needs to hold himself up with a hand on the table. He manages a stuttered explanation between guffaws, and Steve can't help laughing himself. It's a long way from when airplanes did the blowing and hairdos sustained the jobs. Finally Clint collects himself, wipes at the corners of his eyes.

"You've never done one, have you?" Steve assumes, and it's soon confirmed.

"Expression's to _give_ a blow job," Clint's still chuckling lightly, and Steve nods with a small ok, "and no, but thank you for the vote of confidence."

Steve follows a grinning Clint out of the room. "Want me to teach you?"

"Let me guess, through demonstration?"

"Is there any other way?" Steve smirks, turning his head at Clint walking behind him.

"No, no, you're right," he placates, jogging toward the elevators. "I'll go get some bananas."

"Why would you need-- Now wait a minute!"

Clint laughs and it keeps warming Steve, like he's being caressed from the inside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to develop an obsession for James Barnes. (¬_¬)
> 
> Sometimes, as I'm writing this, I keep feeling like I'm ruining the other story.

"Grab my hand! Grab my hand!" Steve yells over the roaring drowning the air, making his lungs burn more violently than the grip he has on the railing.

He's going to fall again, Bucky always falls.

Then fingers grip tight on his, and he's finally caught him, he's done it. Relief washes through Steve, matches his friend's wide grin as the roaring stumbles, catches onto shards of silence. There is a bright moment that infuses him with solace, a weightlessness that propels them both up, and the train is tipping sideways, leaning into the mountain. Steve looks up, sees stone give way and crumble into clouds that spike upwards, piercing the sky.

The ice looms above, waiting for the train to fall up into it, and he's holding tight onto the hand that's pulling at his muscles. They're going to hit the water soon, and will be buried there forever. Fear swirls around Steve, clenching around his ribs, a presentiment of darkness.

"Open your eyes."

Peggy's voice is soothing, always has been, but he can't.

"Come on, Steve, open your eyes."

There's a warm hand caressing his cheek, luring him into the cold.

"Come back to me."

He lets out a laugh that's too much of a sob, his body vibrating with the effort to hang on to the train, to Bucky, to life. He doesn't want to go back into the ice.

"Look at me."

The darkness calls with calloused fingers running gently over his eyelids and it's so warm as it presses against him, washes over his arms.

"Steve, please," it says, breaking with the words.

It's wearing Clint's voice and Steve can't fight it.

"Yeah, there you go," fingertips return to his cheeks, flutter over his eyelashes. "You're awake," Clint says, "you're not in the ice, you're here with me. We're in New York, in a bed, this is real."

It takes a while before he believes it, reads it in Clint's eyes, feels it in the softness of the pillow. He lets himself drown in the tremor of fingers instead of frosted water. The world stops for an elated moment before Steve's body remembers it needs to breath and then there's heaving and not enough air.

"Easy," Clint whispers, "breathe slower, with me."

So he listens, his being focused on that tiny sound of inhaling and exhaling. He's suddenly exhausted, his heart still moving in hitched beats in his chest. He burrows closer, and Clint wraps himself around him, moves his hand to press Steve's head onto his chest, lets Steve grab onto him, push his fingers into the muscles of his arms. He's shaking, but Clint says nothing of it.

"Did I ever tell you," Clint rasps quietly, calming Steve's frayed perception, "how me and Tasha stole Fury's patch once?"

Steve shakes his head slowly, without dislodging himself from the warmth. Clint's voice is soft, a little rough from waking up in the very early hours of the morning, but Steve can't make himself stop Clint and urge him back to sleep. He doesn't want to. He wants... oh, how he wants. So he pushes even closer, breathes deeply through his nose, lets the scent of Clint tether him to reality.

~

When Steve wakes up again, he feels run over with a deep ache settling in his bones. He's alone in bed and he almost panics.

"JARVIS," he calls, "where's Clint."

There's a second of silence, then "He's in his bathroom, Captain. Do you wish me to call him?"

"No, no, it's fine."

Steve's being silly. He shakes his head at himself, remnants of the night still lodged in his mind.

"Very well. Anything else?" JARVIS' disembodied voice seems to have its volume turned low today.

"What time is it?" he asks and finds his voice cracking with thirst.

"It's 3:07 PM. Would you like breakfast or lunch?"

Steve thinks for a minute. "Can you help me make the eggs Clint did?" he asks.

"Of course," JARVIS offers, so Steve gets up, washes his face and brushes his teeth before making his way into the kitchen. By the time he's there, he's almost laughing at himself for not remembering, for the love of all known deities, how Clint stole the eyepatch.

It's fairly easy to cook under the instructions JARVIS is providing, so Steve follows them as best he can. The end result doesn't look as good as Clint's, but it's edible and doesn't taste like shoe soles.

It doesn't take long for Clint to shuffle in groggily and he can't tie two words together before downing a full cup of coffee. "So, Bucky?" he asks before putting the first forkful of eggs in his mouth. He moans and Steve startles, almost spits out the food he's been chewing. "Oh, god, too much pepper," Clint wheezes, eyes watering slightly, as he hurries to wash it with coffee.

It rips a laugh right from Steve's core. He can feel his whole body shaking with it, and he presses a hand over his mouth, full with the egg bits he can't swallow yet.

Clint looks at him with amusement as he places his cup down, chuckles with Steve.

"Don't you have taste buds?" he asks and Steve can only laugh harder. "So that's how it is," Clint's lips curl in a smile and he sits back to watch Steve for a moment before standing up. He rummages in the fridge and returns to the counter, leans on it next to Steve.

It takes a few tries, but Steve finally gets the laughter under control, manages to swallow. "Sorry," he says, looking utterly unrepentant at Clint. He feels lighter, the weight of the nightmare appeased.

Clint smirks before pulling the cap of the tiny bottle he's been holding labeled 'Tabasco'. "Payback time, baby," and he squeezes a long thin line of the sauce all over Steve's plate in a winding spiral.

It shouldn't, but Steve's heart flips painfully in his chest at the endearment, leaving behind an infusion of flushing tightness. Steve holds onto it, draws in big breaths to keep this blissful ache to himself. He grins to cover it, and takes a big bite, challenging back. He chews once, twice... oh-kaaay, that hurts, and it's not supposed to make him laugh again. But Clint's laughing with him this time, his hand warm on the back of Steve's neck.

The toaster pings with two fresh slices, and they look at each other for a moment, as if to ask who put bread in it and _when_.

"Thanks, JARVIS," Clint says and it makes Steve shake his head.

"I think he's evil," he offers.

"Oh, he definitely is. He told me you were a virgin," Clint accuses the air, points a finger upwards in warning.

"Ah. That explains that," Steve braves another bite and rides through the burn, so he won't accidentally out his conversations with JARVIS on subjects of a more intimate nature.

But the AI just plays that recording of a cackling laughter he seems so fond of and leaves them to their own devices.

"You're really going to eat that?" Clint asks, tips his chin at the plates.

"You betcha."

"Not betting with you again," comes back, Clint's palms raised in front of him.

"You afraid of my socks, Barton?" he grins and gets a playful punch in the shoulder for it.

Clint's t-shirt sleeve rides up with the motion and the familiar reddish purple of bruises peeks out from underneath. It takes a fraction of a second for Steve to push the cotton up, reveal the shapes of his fingers hot against his hand. He should at least say sorry, but he doesn't want to, looking at Clint, wearing _Steve_ on his skin. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he swallows past the lump in his throat, but his vocal cords remain silent. Steve can't make the words come out, can't erase the night and the comfort that's been offered.

There's a twitch in his fingers as he stops them from pressing in again, from making sure the bruises stay there. He should let go. Clint's hand closes around his, presses it where it rests on Clint's arm, and Steve looks up at him, startled. There's a sharp motion as Clint shakes his head once, fractured and definitive, filling the silence more than any words could.

Clint will shoulder Steve's burdens just as Steve will help carry Clint's.

It's so simple and natural that it pulls all the air from his lungs, a deep tremor passing through his body, from the tips of his ears to the soles of his feet. Steve freezes with his free hand mid-air when he catches the involuntary motion. What was he going to do? Pull Clint in? Kiss him? He wants, and he should hold himself in check better, until he knows for sure if it's allowed.

Clint lets go, but grabs Steve's hand still hanging in air with both of his, runs his fingertips on Steve's knuckles. He drops his gaze somewhere in the space between them.

"I don't know yet," he says, apologetic tilt to the words.

"It's fine," he hears himself reply. It is, though, Steve will wait. He watches Clint for a while as he plays with his fingers, and doesn't pull or push, just revels in the sensations of skin over skin, lets the heat of the bruises warm his other palm. "Yeah, it was Bucky," he offers, in vague recollection of how this conversation has started.

Clint nods in understanding without breaking his stance or the motion of his hands. "You loved him."

"Very much so," Steve admits, "he was my brother. Pillar, for most of my life, before."

He doesn't need to explain this _before_ to Clint, as his words draw another nod from him, followed by a deep sigh.

"Tasha," Clint offers, his shoulders slumping as he finally looks up at Steve again. He looks lonely in a way that Steve can't fill. He knows how that goes, so Steve squeezes over the bruise before letting go of Clint's arm. He's going to be here, and he hopes Clint understands.

"She's on a mission," he says, prepared to share what information he has on her, "for SHIELD."

"I know, read the mission brief," Clint returns, and Steve raises his eyebrows. "They've locked me out, though."

"Fury's very secretive. All he's telling me is that the mission's going well."

"Yeah, if it weren't, I'd have heard from her by now."

"That's good then." Clint doesn't seem worried, and he knows Natasha best, so it lessens Steve's concerns as well. The rest of the team however... "But. Don't you find it unnatural that we're a team and yet--" he makes a aborted gesture with his hand.

"Well," Clint shrugs, "we don't even know each other. Until a few days ago I didn't even know _you_." He smiles small for a moment, like the connection they've made is something precious, and it returns the pleasant warmth to Steve's core.

"With the Commandos, we were always close, always there," he says.

"That's war for you, perpetually on the move, in the mission," Clint waves his hand in emphasis. "My last team, we had space for ourselves in between calls, but the three of us were keeping tabs on each other." Clint exhales through his nose and leans into the counter.

"Natasha?" Steve asks.

"And Coulson," Clint adds, almost a whisper. "He once put a tracker in my favorite knife. Always carried it with me anyway."

A beat, and then Clint's running a hand through his hair. Steve gets it, the weight of death, more than anything else. If he could spare Clint of it, even for just a tiny fraction of a moment, he would.

"Did you track them, too?"

"Mh," he chews at his lower lip, unfocused, before looking back up at Steve. "Oh," he grins, "I've been tracking all your superhero asses."

It's time to break past the sadness that's been threatening to roll over them and suffocate the afternoon, so Steve smiles. "I hope you like the view."

It drags a soft snort out of Clint. "Banner's been doing yoga," he moves to pick up the toast slices and gestures with them. "Come on, you'll either love this or be appalled. You know, delicate sensibilities and all that," he teases.

"They come with the great ass," Steve counters.

~

Clint leads them into a tiny room cramped with monitors and a myriad of keyboards on small tables. That's how it starts, them looking at Stark drooling on his workbench with a screwdriver under his cheek, and debating whether or not Banner's been watching the cameras as he walks past them.

JARVIS helpfully supplies them with a joystick a few days later, and they take turns at remotely following Banner - "really, call me Bruce" - around the tower. To Steve it looks like Bruce is playing along, tiny smirks hidden behind his tea cup, and it washes some of the disparaging dissociation he feels with the new team. Peggy approves and Steve's days blend into a whirlwind of Clint, warmth, laughter, and sadness.

He's hardly ever seen Bucky in his dreams, so he's surprised when he finds his best friend on the roof one night, looking over the city. Steve sits down on the concrete next to Bucky, leans his forearms on his bent knees.

"Got yourself a little cuckoo, didn't'cha?" Bucky asks with amusement.

"Well, yeah," Steve can't help be a little bitter at the fact, especially since Bucky's dead and shouldn't seem so vivid.

"Thought your head was harder than that."

Steve bumps their shoulders and Bucky lights up, drags a deep inhale.

"You ever thought you'd end up here?"

"Nah... Peggy told me once I was meant for greater things, but I don't think she meant this," Steve picks at the seam of his pants.

Bucky passes him the cigarette before he leans back on his elbows, tips his chin at the city below. "You think I'm alive out there somewhere?"

Steve's breath freezes in his lungs for a long moment, full of smoke, before he lets it out slowly. He licks his lips, tasting the lingering of burnt tobacco in his mouth, and turns his head toward Bucky, but he just offers Steve his patented smirk.

"I really don't wanna think about something like that," he chokes out.

Bucky's smile just turns understanding and he bumps their knees, leans his head back at the soft rustling behind them. Clint drops down on Steve's other side.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," Bucky nods at him and leans conspiratorially into Steve. "You choose'em especially pretty, or do they come to you just like that?" he adds, entirely too amused.

With a soft snort and a head shake, Steve extends his hand, offers Clint the lit cig.

"Don't mind him," Steve says right over Bucky's "You're a sniper, too, right?"

"Mind who," Clint asks, confused frown over his gaze as he shifts it from Steve's hand to his face.

"I'm invisible," Bucky mock-moans next to him, but Steve can't tear his eyes away from the soft glow of the kindled end of the cigarette resting between his fingers.

It comes to him slowly, with petrifying certainty, that there's nothing there. Yet, Bucky emanates warmth at his side, and the cig's still there, he can see it, smell it, touch it.

"Jesus," he breathes.

Steve's hands are shaking.

"Wait here," Clint says and squeezes his shoulder.

Tremors are making the tiny spot of smolder flutter against the darkened horizon.

There is movement again and Clint's back. He fumbles with a pack and the click of the lighter sounds sharp in Steve's ears. "Here," he says and places another cigarette between Steve's outstretched fingers, exactly through the other one, until they occupy the same space, their profiles shifting into place.

Clint grabs his wrist, pulls at Steve's hand until he can draw from it, proves it's real this time. Blue tendrils of smoke surround them gradually as Clint exhales. "Who's here with us?" he asks, no hint of judgment or weariness in his voice.

With _us_ , he says. It pulls a lump right into Steve's throat, presses on his trachea.

"Bucky," he manages.

"So I guess it's time for embarrassing childhood stories?" Clint grins and elbows Steve gently in the ribs.

Next to them, Bucky laughs. "Oh, do I have some good ones."

That's how Steve spends the night, interpreting between a dead man and a man who doesn't realize how alive he is. It hurts so badly, that his throat feels raw by the time dawn stretches over the skyline. There's hot tea waiting for them in the kitchen, and then Clint's dragging him to bed.

"You can mourn him, you know," he says as he pulls Steve to his chest, gathers him in his arms, and that's when Steve realizes what Clint's been doing all night.

"Yeah, I know," he whispers as he burrows closer. "It's not that, though." There's an inquisitive sound vibrating through Clint's chest and into his cheek. "All that time under, I rarely ever dreamed of him."

"He's pleasant company, quiet fellow," Clint offers back and Steve can hear the small smile that accompanies the words.

It has the prefect effect of pulling a short laughter out of Steve, relaxing him minutely. Bucky settles in on Peggy's favorite side of the bed, his back against the headboard, legs stretched and crossed at the ankles.

"I knew you missed me, punk," he grins.

"Jerk," Steve mumbles and falls asleep with Clint's fingers in his hair.

It hurts a little less in the morning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a bit boring for those of you who've already read Ghosts, fair warning.
> 
> Gah, what was I thinking.

With each passing day, Clint looks healthier. He's eating more, sleeping more, and even though nightmares still plague his rest, he's losing that part of him that's rotten with regret. He's been getting better at waking Steve up (if all else fails, a sharp jab to the ribs usually does the trick), at pulling him back to reality, and at playing along with the delusions. He tells Steve it's important to let those happen. Apparently Steve has some 'unresolved issues'. It makes him shake his head at himself. Of course there are things he'd want to say to a lot of people, and he misses them all a whole lot, but there's nothing he can do right now. There's _nothing_ _to fix_. Clint plays along, though, and after each episode, Steve feels a little bit more unburdened.

It's been seventeen days, but to Steve it feels like a lifetime, already irreversibly connected to Clint. Losing him would be Bucky levels of catastrophic right now, and he realizes how vulnerable that makes him.

He's sitting in a SHIELD briefing room between Clint and Bruce when agent Hill enters and drops files for them on the table. He spares half a second to admire how skillfully she's thrown the papers down so that they've slid perfectly in front of the three Avengers. He'd rather focus on that instead of dwelling on how _one of his own_ is in danger. Natasha Romanov's team has missed scheduled communications. He itches to run off _now, now, now_ , but he needs to stay put and get information, so he distracts himself with minute fractions of moments to keep from climbing the walls. Next to him, Clint's eerily still, even when in motion.

"You know why you're here," agent Hill starts, "Romanov's team is out of reach. They're been stationed in Kuala Lumpur," she clicks on a small remote and images flash behind her as she talks, "on a surveillance mission. It was supposed to be a milk run, and we haven't set contingencies in place."

Clint grimaces like he knows how that goes and Steve wonders just how many times SHIELD has let him fend for himself.

"We're stretched a bit thin," she continues, "and we can't get feet on the ground fast enough." Hill tips her chin at Clint then. "You know her moves, so it's best you go get them home."

"Yeah," Clint says, but Steve can't help noticing an underlining _something_ under Hill's words, like there's more to the mission than the lives of their agents, something with which she's not in full agreement, but out of her hands nonetheless.

Is Fury planning on _testing_ Clint? A stab of cold runs down his spine and he suppresses a shiver.

"This is Jonathan Carson, weapons dealer. He likes pretty things," the screen fills with photographs of the man, the things he surrounds himself with, "so he recently got himself involved in the diamond trade and into business with this woman," agent Hill points to the face of an older woman, "Evelyn Lancas, but don't let her granny face fool you, boys, she's as bad as they come. Lancas provides cheap human labor for underground circles in East Asia, and as far as we can tell, she's the second leader of a diamond trafficking group working out of South Africa."

"Quite the resume," Banner says as he thumbs at the file in front of him.

"Yes. We want to take down her human traffic ring, so our entry was Carson. Surveillance mission was on him, rumors were that he was meeting Lancas in Kuala Lumpur sometimes in May. Since Carson's usually staying there from April to June every year, we had to play the long game. Wait for the meet, slip a bug on Lancas, and we're game from there."

"What went wrong?" Steve asks.

"We don't know," Hill answers and flinches visibly, "updates were normal until 18 hours ago when they missed their first check-in."

"We can read the rest en-route," Clint stands up, "when do we leave?"

"As soon as possible, but one more thing first," Hills stops him with a palm raised in the air, moving to cut Clint off from the door, "you're going in without backup and under civilian cover."

Dread washes over Steve as Clint sits back down. "Lay it out, then," Clint sighs.

"As I said, Carson likes pretty things, and his security is pretty much crap. He is reckless and keeps a night life that would have rivaled Tony Stark's from a couple of years ago. But while in K.L. he shuts himself in his estate there," she brings up a view of a large mansion from above, "and almost vanishes, except that he orders girls from a high end brothel for the duration. Agent Romanov and her team had covers in place with the brothel. They were tasked with monitoring the comings and goings of the estate and to try planting various bugs on the property. Based on their intel, 40 hours ago we intercepted this man, Augusto Dutra, Portuguese electronic engineer. According to him, Carson needs someone to check the warheads he recently acquired, apparently his tracking chips aren't working."

"Let me guess," Banner says, his chin tilting up, "you want me to be this guy."

"Exactly," Hill replies. "We've checked his intel, he and Carson have never met before. Captain Rogers and Agent Barton will pose as your bodyguard and assistant, your backgrounds are in the files I gave you. You'll go in, make the meet, find out what happened to our team and get them out. Last check-in we got, they were still in the mansion. Bonus if you destroy the warheads, but that's second objective. Clint," she says and leans over the table at him, "you've got the reins on this one. Bring my agents home."

"Yes, sir," Clint nods, but it sounds too grim for Steve's liking.

There's an itch starting to grow under Steve's skin, especially since a volatile situation like this will most likely turn out endangering them all. He knows it's not Bruce's fault, but he _is_ a danger.

"Dr. Banner," he tries to make his voice as devoid of emotion as possible, he'd rather keep a tentative friendship than put him in a tight spot, "can you do this?"

"This is supposed to be non-green, right?" he asks the room instead of a reply.

"Doc," Clint grins, "you got us with naked yoga, that takes skill." On the other side of the table Hill mouths 'naked what?' and Clint waves her off with a flick of his wrist. "We're gonna be there and we can take tranqs with us."

Bruce removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes. "I owe her. And even if I didn't."

Steve takes a deep breath as Clint and Hill share nods.

"Captain," she turns her attention to Steve, "have you ever done undercover work?"

"Are you kidding me? He dated Peggy Carter," Clint jumps before he can answer and it makes Hill roll her eyes.

With that, the briefing's over and they get sent through wardrobe and fitting and the armory before they're off to the tower to get ready. Flight's scheduled in an hour.

Steve can't shake off the feeling of ominous dread that settles over him, like death's been looking at his path over his shoulder. It shakes him right down to the marrow of his bones, replaces Clint's warmth with cold.

Someone is going to die.

The reality of this possibility hits Steve suddenly. There's a chance that he might lose yet another connection to the world, that he might have to settle for talking to more ghosts soon. He can't have that. If he or Clint were to perish in the next days, he wants at least one of his wishes granted. It doesn't sound very optimistic in his head, but he's been through this before, so he must have a kiss before they leave.

He washes and dresses and packs, then he enters Clint's room for the first time. He takes the space in as he drops his backpack. It's less messy than he'd imagined. Clint's just tying his shoelaces in an armchair, and leans back when Steve approaches. He stops close enough to touch, bends over with his hands on the armrests, trying to convey everything without losing his nerve, without making this discouraging.

"Life's full of unexpected, Clint."

Understanding dawns over Clint's face and he fists his hands into the fabric of his cargo pants. Steve won't back down, through, not now. He needs this more than he needs air.

"I want to kiss you, and I will." He breathes in, long and deep, trying to calm his rushing thoughts, trying to explain to Clint he's not demanding, but asking. When in doubt, go for the absolute, horrific truth. "But it won't force a decision out of you," he continues. "I just want to kiss you once, in case we die. You decide if it repeats sometime later."

Clint goes absolutely still beneath him, for one, two, three seconds, and then his eyelashes flutter as his irises thin out. In that exact moment, Steve knows Clint wants this, too, and it sends tendrils of hope to coil in the pit of his stomach.

"Yeah, ok," a sound so soft it's barely more than air escapes Clint, and Steve's lips press onto it before he even knows he's doing it.

This single point of touch flares up Steve's spine and he moves his hand to wrap around the back of Clint's neck before pouring himself into this suspended grain of reality. He is allowed, so he takes his time to learn the shape of Clint's mouth, how to coax him open for Steve. It burns through him more, though, how Clint's responding, pulling Steve to him by the front of his t-shirt, drinking him in.

Steve reluctantly lets go, his breaths too much and not enough at the same time. He's made Clint look like that, lips puffy and red, chest heaving. This man in front of him, eyes sharp that go down into the filthiest core of Steve, this man looks like he _wants_ , too, despite every ounce of insanity on display between them.

Steve wants, now more than ever.

~

They exchange the quinjet with a sort of private plane in Sri Lanka so as to not attract unwanted attention and they're flying over a large stretch of water when Clint settles in the seat opposite of Steve. A few sunbeams catch into the glass of the window and dance over the side of Clint's face, lighting up the small smile he offers.

Silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable, and Clint's lips gradually lose their upward turn. He watches, fascinated, as the face in front of him shifts and resets, barren of the softness and warmth that's been radiating from Clint, and it steals the air from his lungs, the way he's being specifically allowed to see this. He makes his best effort to memorize every single fraction of it.

Hawkeye looks at him unblinking, unwinds his muscles with an upturn curl of a corner of his mouth that flashes a hint of teeth in sunlight. He extends a hand, grips Steve's jaw a little too tight.

" _This_ is what kills people," he warns, like he refuses to acknowledge it as part of him. It sends a pang of hurt through Steve, because Clint can see a lot, but how can he not realize that it's Clint speaking through Hawkeye's mouth? They are not separate, but of one being, killer and conscience. _That_ is what makes them soldiers instead of murderers.

He lets his mouth move in a matching half-grin as he draws from that merciless place inside of him.

"Hi."

Clint's eyebrows twitch up in amusement and he lets go, shakes his head, but doesn't hide how pleased he is that Steve hasn't balked. As if Steve would.

"Teach me how to do that," he says and settles back in his seat. _Give me all the gory details_ , he thinks, _and I still won't run, you'll see._

Smile turning wider, Clint complies and explains with growing enthusiasm. Steve feels like something's palpably changed between them, and it's terrifying and elating at the same time.


	7. Chapter 7

After landing, they arrive at the safehouse Natasha's team has been using sometime around noon, which gives them more than a day to scout the place and prepare for the meeting set for next evening. Their 'touristy' clothes (as they've called them at SHIELD) allow them to blend into the vibrant streets and he follows quietly behind Clint, watches how he leads them through the traps no doubt set there to protect the space.

The apartment they enter is quiet and still, as if nobody's been there in a couple of days, the air a bit stale and hot. Steve walks around, taking in the large living room spread around them with a generous kitchen corner, opens doors to find two bedrooms, a bathroom. It's not cozy, but not lacking either, a place to sleep and care for bodily and information needs as the mission unfurls.

"The good news is that their covers don't seem to have been blown," Clint says as Bruce takes a seat on the sofa, rolls his shoulders anxiously. "All the equipment's here, safely turned off. A handful of thugs would've taken it, or smashed it to pieces."

"So what now?" Bruce asks and he sounds tired.

"You," Clint tells him, "can rest, meditate, shower, calm down," points to the bedrooms over his shoulders.

Bruce sounds relieved for the respite. "All right. What about you?"

"I'm going to scope the mansion," Clint replies, and that gets all of Steve's attention, "get a feel of it, see if I can find anything."

"Coming with you," he says, but Clint's arm raises in front of him. Steve turns a pointed look at him, a frown settling between his eyebrows.

"Wait a second," and the hand flips toward Bruce. "Doc, you want Cap to stay with you?"

Oh. _Oh_. Less Clint and more safety of the general population, he chastises himself. Well, he's only human. Mostly.

Bruce looks into the air, focused on himself for a bit, before refusing the offer. "Nah, I'm good, just jitters," he says shaking himself a little from the shoulders.

Clint takes him at his word, checks his guns before tilting his head to the door at Steve. "We should be back in four hours, five at most," he adds, "if we're not back by then, contact SHIELD like I showed you and get out of here."

"Will do," Bruce says, and they're off.

~

Steve is fascinated by this side of Clint, the way he holds himself with confidence, the way he reacts and adapts his stance to blend in, so he lets himself slip into place beside him. Steve's been a leader before, and now it's refreshing to take the other role, to watch the back of the one who needs to spare their thoughts to strategies and planning a few moves ahead.

They change buses, take the most crowded streets and disappear from view every few corners to double back. There is nobody following them, and Clint confirms it when he tells him as much. Clint also patiently explains his tactics when he asks, especially when Steve's a little more than worried about being recognized, given their recent exploits in New York.

"See, I couldn't have imagined that while under," Steve says after Clint describes how easily newspaper and television pictures can be altered so they don't look like themselves in them anymore.

"Are you ok?" comes next. They're standing in the middle of a bus, people shifting around them. It's warming how Clint can read him already.

"Yeah, I know I'm not dreaming," he eases. "I'd just like to--" he starts before he has to stop himself from offering himself to be used like a weapon. He doesn't really know how to say that he'd lay his entire being for Clint without cheapening what Clint is. In the end, he settles on "Tell me who you need me to be."

But Clint grins at him. "You say the sweetest things," and Steve can't help but smack him playfully on the shoulder for all his worries. "Be that guy that killed a human for a mutt."

The way Clint smiles at him, with utter _understanding_ at how it feels to be an executioner, shakes Steve, pulls him closer to Clint, strengthens his want to cherish this man. It unfolds the tightness in his shoulders and appeases some of his concerns. Clint has accepted his offer and Steve will follow.

"Yessir," he smirks and gets a pleased look in return.

~

The area that hosts their target mansion stretches into cluttered arrays of buildings, the old interwoven with the new, gypsum decorations contrasting with the glass panes of office buildings. Clint leads them to a building where he believes the other team's sniper would have been posted. Specialist Morrow, he remembers reading her name in a file, initial _S_ next to it. Well, he guesses SHIELD's priorities in such debriefings are not exactly aligned with social niceties.

Both of them make their quiet way through the building, but it's deserted, which they've been expecting, given the large 'for lease' sign adorning the outside. The door to the roof hangs ajar when they reach it, and Clint takes point, gun drawn. The open space is just as devoid of life as the rest of the structure, save for a careful placement of sniping equipment.

"Blood drops," Clint says and lowers himself in a crouch to look closer, "dry." He stands and follows their line to the low wall that runs around the edge. "More here, looks like she went over."

Steve shares Clint's grimace. There's no time to dwell, though, they have a mission. He watches Clint settle in Morrow's place, then picks up the rifle, slowly swipes the area. He's never seen Clint do this before, a stillness infusing his entire body as he looks through the scope.

"No snipers," he says, "but there's a spot on Carson's roof that can be used for shooting." He looks behind them as he puts the rifle back down, shakes his head. "Can't confirm whatever hit Morrow came from there," and Steve nods in understanding.

Clint slowly leans over the side of the building, to see if he can tell where the sniper's fallen, and Steve inches closer, just in case, keeps an eye out.

"Fuck," he hears Clint swear, "Morrow's alive."

Steve follows him at a run down the stairs, through office spaces barren of furniture, and they come to a stop in front of a large window. On the other side, Morrow's tangled in ropes in the folds of the leasing tarp that hangs on the outside of the building. She's shaking, chest barely moving under labored breaths, but she's not visibly bleeding.

He follows Clint's lead at removing the screws that hold the glass in place, and once they have an opening, they start carefully pulling her in without moving the tarp too much, lest they give their position away. Soon, they have her inside, laid on the dusty carpet and Clint's checking her over. He starts with her pulse, then her ribs, finally moving to the cut and bump on the side of her head, pressing his fingers gently around it before turning her head. She doesn't seem aware of them.

"That's one hell of a luck," he says and points to a scratch on the side of her head, "bullet passed right here, looks big caliber."

"So you think she ducked, hit her head, fell over?" Steve fills in the blanks.

"Looks like it," Clint takes her pulse again, "she'll have to confirm later, but now she's shocky from her injuries and exposure and we need to get her out of here, fast."

"Tell me what to do," he nods and moves closer. He doesn't know how to get her covertly to safety in this century.

"Clean up her face," he hears as Clint pulls out wet wipes from one of his pockets, "make her presentable, I'll go get her stuff."

Steve gets to work quickly, making sure not to press on her wounds, and boy, does he love wet wipes. It has been one of the things he'd definitely embraced without second thought in this new world - no more handkerchiefs that needed to be wet with saliva in order to clean blood and alley grime off his face. He pulls himself to the present, they have a hurt fellow soldier, with more who-knows-where and he needs to keep stray thoughts from sidetracking him.

By the time he's finished, she's starting to come to, awareness of her surroundings sliding into place in her half lidded eyes when Clint's back and they dress her in her jacket. They replace the window as fast as possible, then hoist her up between them. She can barely walk, so Steve pulls her higher, carrying her sluggish mass of muscle and heavy gear.

"Hey babe, fancy meeting you h..." she starts at Clint, unsuccessful attempt at humor, but trails off in a cough. "'m not so good."

"Yeah, I can see that," Clint says. "We're here now, gonna get you safe, 'k?"

A couple of alleyways, a cab and a nosy driver later, they are back at the apartment. The building door's too narrow for them to pass through as they are, so Steve picks her up against her weak struggle and bounds up the stairs as quickly as possible, Clint close behind him with her duffel and rest of the equipment.

"What happened," Bruce is rising to his feet as they enter the room.

"Gotta get her warm," Clint replies behind him, and Steve sits Morrow down in the middle of the sofa.

Bruce understands, and Steve hears him make tea in the kitchen while he and Clint hurry to get her out of her clothes. He's done this before, more times for Bucky than the rest of the commandos, so he knows how to help here. Steve wraps the blankets Clint's bringing around her, rubs his hands on her skin to warm her.

"You've done this before," Clint whispers after a while and Steve just nods, wishing Clint won't press. As much as he'd like to share these memories with him, it's really not the time or place to start hallucinating Bucky again. Clint understands, like always.

Bruce makes Morrow drink hot tea while Clint talks to SHIELD's medical facility on a laptop. By their reckoning, she's not in danger, and they give simple enough instructions to care for her until the mission's over. Speaking of mission, Morrow comes back to full awareness a few hours later, gives them the run down of the events leading to her fall.

It looks like Carson's hiring call girls to stand around and look pretty during his parties. Natasha had been suspecting an underground passage allowing guests to come and go unseen. Morrow had taken a hit when the trafficker and his friends had been shooting randomly from his roof. It's quite a streak of bad luck, making Steve shiver in wonder at what's happened with the rest of her team. As far as she knows, they'd gone inside the mansion with covers intact, and everything had been quiet up until she'd fallen, right before their scheduled report.

Steve's never heard a girl (woman, they call them women now) swear this much. He likes her, reminds him of Clint, with her rough edges and a semi-permanent frown stuck between her eyebrows.

"Barely had time to duck," she unhappily recounts her close brush with the bullet, "then I fell, like a fucking newbie, no way out of that craptastic tarp but straight down twenty stories."

"Hey, now, I fall off roofs all the time," Clint tells her.

"You _jump off on purpose_ , jackass," she spits and Steve feels his eyebrows go up.

He turns a pointed look at Clint, please don't do that, don't _die_... but Clint's attention is back on Morrow. It rubs Steve the wrong way, this seeming carelessness, yet he's not the one to talk. Steve himself is known to dive recklessly into the fray, stare death in the face. He just needs to keep a better eye on Clint, make sure Steve's there to catch him when Clint inevitably does something stupidly heroic.

"You're alive," Clint's telling Morrow soothingly and she just huffs with fake annoyance, but Steve can see the relief in her eyes when the blankets tighten around her, a reminder of warmth.

"Do you know what happened with Ms. Romanov and the other agents?" Steve asks because Morrow might be safe, but the others aren't and he itches under his skin to take action.

She doesn't and she's pissed that they don't, either. She'd figured they must have missed communications when nobody had come for her. Clint wants her back on the mission, and he asks for it, not unkindly. Morrow hides her tiredness behind sarcasm, but she's going to be there, back on that roof that's almost killed her. Steve is impressed by her resilience, and when he looks up, catching Bruce's eye, he can see the same marvel reflected in there.

It's food next, resting their bodies while re-reading the facts and comparing their files with the notes the other team's stashed in the apartment. Steve sits himself close to Morrow on the sofa, lets the heat of his body seep through the layers around her and is not surprised that Bruce takes her other side with a book, not as close, but near enough, passing her another cup of tea.

He watches Clint restart the cluster of monitors and assorted equipment on the other side of the room, quietly chatting with Morrow. It's mostly about Kuala Lumpur, flying around the world, best weather to snipe in, and the SHIELD cafeteria. Steve is entirely too curious about Clint's life before the New York battle, so he takes the opportunity to query someone who clearly knows him.

"You've worked together before?" he asks, tipping his head Clint's way.

"Barton trained a few of us, yeah," she says and swallows tea.

Steve's surprised, but the way Clint's been moving ever since they've landed, with skill and competence, he can see how that's possible. Want hits him again, mercilessly, and he tries to distract himself.

"Let me guess, babe was his code name?" he smirks and she laughs, slow and deep.

"There was an incident with a pig and the whole sniper division knew about it. He used to hate that, so if you wanna piss him off, call him babe."

Clint's heard them and he huffs, the corners of his mouth curling up, but he schools his expression, turns around to raise an eyebrow at Morrow. "Hey, pipsqueak, don't bad-mouth your elders."

"You're talking, shortie?" she teases him, but he looks absorbed by Steve.

He's so beautiful in this moment, crouching next to the coffee table, a cable in his hand, guns and electronics surrounding him. Steve forgets, for a moment, they're not alone.

"Barton, I thought you were straight," he hears Morrow beside him.

"Have you seen him?" Clint waves to encompass Steve's body.

"Yeah, I'd turn straight for that, too," Morrow smirks, cup pressed against her lips. "But what does he see in you?"

That can't go unpunished, Steve thinks as Clint shrugs. Clint should never doubt himself, not even as a teasing joke. So he waits for her to sip from the cup before he says "He gives swell blowjobs."

It's worth it, the stray drops of tea that hit him as she chokes and coughs it all over herself. It makes Bruce laugh and Clint grin.

"You're mean," Clint's amused.

"I know," he says, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, as I write this, I misspell Clint's name, writing "Clit" instead. Cracks me up. Oh well. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been swamped with work. And I have to write for work, kinda puts a damper on writing for pleasure. -_-
> 
> Well, thank you for reading so far and if you wanna share this on tumblr or whatever, feel free. I noticed fandoms started moving from LJ to tumblr, and I'm still out of sorts with figuring out how that works, but meh. I don't even know anymore. I suddenly want to write trans-Clint buying tampons and meeting Steve there in the female hygiene isle. Hah. It would be half sad and half funny. Or just sad, knowing me. Or meeting Bucky. Hmm...

They take turns sleeping, Clint and Steve having the first watch as they survey the video feeds surrounding the mansion. The night is still, slightly breezy as they sit in armchairs in front of the monitors. They don't even try to go to sleep without each other anymore, and it should scare Steve how both of them find way too much peace of mind in sharing beds. It's dangerous in their line of work.

Something niggles at his thoughts, though, can't help replaying how Clint's explained their attachment to Morrow as something entirely based on Steve's body. He knows Clint was joking, whatever's between them is private, but there's a small part of Steve, remnant of that Brooklyn scrawny kid, that can't help need the reassurance. He looks at Clint unable to smooth the frown pulling at his forehead, tries to swallow the words, but they push out of him anyway.

"If it weren't for my bod--" warm fingers press against his mouth, cutting him off, and he looks up to see Clint hovering above him.

"Remember when I assumed shit and then made an ass of myself?"

Steve nods, he remembers, but he doesn't understand what that's got to do with this.

"Then don't." Oh, there it is. "It's not your body."

Steve wants to not believe him, it's too close to the empty hopes of his past that, for a long moment, he can't fathom how Clint's been looking at him from the inside. But Clint's sincere, so Steve has no reason to fight him on this, to disrespect Clint by wrongly putting thoughts in his head.

"If you're sure," he sighs. "It's the same for you, you know," he says, just in case Clint isn't already aware of it.

"I know," comes back and Clint takes his hand. "Thank you," he says before pressing his lips over Steve's knuckles, eyes closed.

Clint doesn't move away, but remains still, reverent in a way that constricts Steve's chest. He breathes, warmed through by Clint's mouth on him, savoring this moment and the closeness. In the end, he pulls at Clint, brings him to curl against Steve's chest sideways in his lap, and it's the most natural slotting of their bodies, comfortable and real and safe.

~

Mid morning, when everyone's gotten at least a few hours of sleep, they start getting ready. Weapons first, and both Clint and Steve bemoan the lack of their favorites. Next, it's clothing and hair gel (Clint almost gets his fingers bit off), all with a stream of Morrow's sardonic comments from the sidelines, at least until Clint threatens her with heels.

Clint's patient, Steve notices, as he offers advice and guidance for their impending performances, even though he likes to mutter crankily at them. It appeases Steve's worries somewhat, but not enough to relax him into letting his guard down. They still have a mission to complete, and he's not forgotten the bitter feeling in the back of his throat that death is coming soon.

Bruce is wearing a rumpled light suit, hat on his head, but Steve's dressed in an all black combo, black tie, black shirt, hair gelled back, and holster obvious under his jacket. He feels ridiculous, but that's exactly how Augusto Dutra's bodyguard, Mikal, dresses. They've seen the photographs and the seized possessions of the man.

The real Dutra doesn't have a personal assistant, though, so Steve envies Clint a little for being able to have at least a semblance of a say in his choice of clothing. Soon enough, Clint steps out of the bedroom he's commandeered so he can dress in peace. Clint's white tie and shirt stand out from his dark gray suit, hugging tightly the lines of his body as he moves, fluid and graceful, and that tugs at Steve's want alright, but it's the grin Clint's sporting that makes Steve feel like he's kicked in the gut. He can't tear his eyes off of Clint, watches avidly as he packs himself with sharp knives and deadly handguns. He slips something into his jacket pocket, and Steve is not imagining the way Clint lets his thumb linger on the fabric of his shirt, scrapes across his nipple, raising the little nub in its wake, before he looks up at Steve. The bastard knows what he's doing, judging by the challenge in his eyes.

The early afternoon sunlight slants into the room between the drawn blinds, leaving half of it darkened, and it makes Clint look like a predator, eyes sharp and knowing, ready to strike. Air lodges tightly in Steve's throat and he barely restrains himself from opening his legs in invitation, right then and there, witnesses be damned. This time, it's Clint that's alluring, putting himself on display. He's offering himself with a sort of confidence that says he _knows_ what Steve wants, how to push his buttons. He _sees_.

Steve's about to burn when a car honk outside brings him back to the present. It's not a harsh reset, he can feel the lingering of desire pooling into his insides, tucking itself with patience. It's brought him balance, Steve realizes, and it's so elating that he can't really bring himself down with the reality of the mission. He tests his focus, it's intact, but behind it, his mind is thrumming with pleasant gratitude. With this raw strength between them, Steve doesn't feel like an unwanted intruder, doesn't feel like he's forcing his way in. Clint can take it, can give it back.

There is a promise in Clint, unfurling his want for Steve to see, before his eyes turn pleading, as if to ask for Steve to not forget this, to push Clint over, make him follow through with his decision. It draws a smile from Steve, his body so light with hope that he can't help the affection that fills him. From where he stands, Clint can _see_ it, and it looks like that's all the answer Clint needs.

~

The three of them arrive at the hotel a few hours before the meeting, pretending to be fresh off the road, as Morrow sets up in her nest. They have comms tied in to each other, and Clint checks the room for bugs. Bruce is anxious, understandably, asking sensible questions.

"What if they check us for weapons," he asks after both Clint and Steve reassure him, remind him of the tranquilizers they're carrying.

"They might, but your job is weapons, so it's expected for you to carry something," Clint explains for the twentieth time that day, still patient.

Bruce seems to get it, at least enough to stop pacing nervously around, and settles in a chair, practices being Dutra while giving Steve orders of "put your finger on your nose" and "spin like a ballerina" in an awful accent. Steve smiles at him and sometimes even complies.

A message arrives for them a couple of hours before the meeting with a change in location. Clint informs Morrow, he thinks it's the end of the fabled underground passage no one's been able to find. Steve is pushing down on the bitter taste in his mouth as they make their way out the door an hour later.

~

Iron gates open as the town car hired from the hotel drives them through to the front of the house sitting at the address they've been given. They're led inside by a rough looking man in a cheap suit who rolls his shoulders trying to make himself taller and more menacing than Steve. He doesn't manage, but he and his similar friend still ask them to empty their pockets in one of the rooms of the empty house. There's only a table sitting there in the middle of the floor, a forgotten chair in a corner.

"What the hell is this?" one of the two men asks, pointing to the small metal syringe Bruce has retrieved from his coat. Steve thinks they're mercenaries playing security detail.

"Tranquilizers," Bruce says, with a calmness that impresses Steve.

"Why would you have _that_ with you?" Steve turns to see a third man entering the room. He recognizes Carson's face from the photographs in the files.

Carson is better at looking menacing than his men, but Bruce is unaffected as he waves a hand.

"You know, incentive for little girls," he replies, and it takes Steve a second to catch up. His stomach turns, but apparently it has been the right answer as Carson's eyes spark with interest.

"Little girls," he repeats, waiting for further explanation.

"And little boys," Bruce's finger points back toward Steve as he speaks. "You don't wanna do this one, heavy. But this, worth all the money," he adds.

Steve can't see Bruce's face as he looks at Clint, but he can see Clint, and through there's nothing to betray his reaction, he just knows Clint is an inch away from strangling Bruce. He doesn't stop the smile that pulls at his lips, but strips the trances of fondness from it, lets it turn into a smirk.

Carson doesn't notice, and he just extends his hand at Bruce, introducing himself, laughs as if it were natural to drug one's assistant and _rape_ them. He stops the shiver that wants to rush through his shoulders and hopes to put his fist through Carson's face sooner rather than later.

They exchange fake pleasantries, Carson trying to insult Dutra, but Bruce sells it and they're being led through an underground passage that opens into the first floor of Carson's mansion. Steve looks over the crowd milling around, glasses in hand and too much jewelry. He spots the few doors in the room, mapping out what should lead outside, which are likely to have unfriendlies behind them, just like Peggy's taught him. He feels her presence there with him, encouraging, but not suffocating him with unwarranted hallucinations. The bad new, however, is that none of the girls they're looking for are here, and neither is Natasha, or the rest of her team.

"What, no entertainment?" Bruce asks Carson as they make their way through the room.

"Business first, pleasure later, Mr. Dutra," Carson throws over his shoulder, "besides, it'll be worth the wait." He grins toothily, and suddenly Steve's sure the missing women are somehow part of whatever sick intentions this animal and his cohort have for the evening.

The feeling of dread he's been having returns in full force when they're brought through a side door into another underground level. Given the position of the stairs, Steve thinks it might be connected with the passage they've come through earlier, somewhere to the north-east of their current position. And yes, there are two doors at the bottom of the stairs, one leading left, one right. They all take the left, and when Bruce asks with disinterest about the second door, Steve's suspicions are confirmed at the 'entertainment' reply. Maybe he or Clint can double back through there, set the girls free.

At the end of a narrow corridor there's a room, a large table in the middle and various shelves around the walls. Evelyn Lancas is there, looking at them as she hovers over a mass of metal and wires on the table. It looks vaguely missile-shaped, so Steve is safe in assuming that's what they need the engineer for. The room is packed, eight well armed men lingering about, fingers twitching on triggers. Steve takes a deep breath.

Introductions are dry this time around, Lancas' eyebrows are locked in a frown and Carson tries to make himself as small as possible in her presence. So she's the head of all this, Steve thinks. Bruce looks over the missile parts, talks about some sort of technological thing Steve doesn't really understand (but is sure Bruce is lying) as he watches the others in the small space, waiting for any sort of surprise attack.

It doesn't take long before Clint's practically vibrating to do something, Steve can see it even though Clint doesn't betray anything in his posture, or gestures, or expression. Bruce must sense it, too, and he sends Clint after a drink. Steve keeps close then, half a step behind and to the side of the doctor, hands clasped in front of him, as the conversation drags over more technical subjects. Bruce is stalling, waiting for Clint, Steve realizes, as they listen to the check in with Morrow over the comms. A couple of minutes later, they hear Natasha's voice and Bruce's shoulders slump in relief. He gestures over the wires to hide it.

"This is possible doing," he drawls in the awful accent he'd practiced, "but will take some getting dirty." He looks over his shoulder at Steve, grins. "Like naked yoga, yah?"

And that's all the warning Steve gets, before Bruce stabs the screwdriver he's holding into something on the table, and flames burst upwards with a loud bang. Steve takes advantage of the confusion and pulls his gun on Lancas before she can draw her own. At the same time, one of the goon grabs for Bruce, throws him against a wall and that's when Steve feels panic creeping into the base of his skull. Bruce scrambles backwards until he's lodged against a shelf, breathing heavily. Damn.

"Stop," he says and releases the safety.

Everyone stills for long seconds, the harsh intake of air between Bruce's lips interspersing with the crackle of the fire still burning on the table. Then footsteps fall in rapid succession as someone runs into the room and one of the men close to the door decides to swing at the newcomer. Clint slides around the fist and stops with his temple almost touching the muzzle of the gun Carson's pointing at him.

"Put the fucking gun down or he's dead," Carson barks at Steve.

But Clint just grins and _winks_ at Steve before he slaps Carson hard across the face, taking his gun in less than two seconds. Steve feels like doubling over, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. Numb pain encases his entire body as he oscillates wildly between being horrified at how close Clint's come to death and the immense want that slams into him at Clint's dexterity.

"Restrain them," Lancas says and Steve curses his lack of attention under his breath as he ducks a bullet.

Bruce manages to escape in the fight that ensues, and Steve breathes a little easier. The hired mercenaries go down one by one, until there's only two left. But more men appear after a second and Clint goes down. A sort of bone deep desperation grabs onto Steve, to check on Clint, make sure he's breathing, but his opponents seem more and more by the minute instead of less as he breaks bones with his fists, shoots kneecaps and throats until his clip is empty.

There's a sharp stab to his neck before his muscles stop cooperating suddenly and he goes down to his knees. Above him, Lancas smirks when Steve sluggishly pulls the metal syringe from where it's still embedded. Hulk tranquilizers. Well, fuck.


	9. Chapter 9

Sharp needles stab through Steve as the arctic water rushes in along with shards of glass breaking from the front window of the plane. He inhales involuntarily, breathes in the cold as his skin shudders through the pain. There are hands on him, pushing him to his knees and bricks shape themselves into the metal pillars of the cockpit. It's wrong, his hands tied behind his back and arms keeping him down, the cold floor an unforgiving concrete under his flesh.

He can't understand this place. It's there, but not, and he can't make sense of what he's seeing, can't trust himself. But, against all odds, Clint is there, and that's the worst _wrongness_ of it. Clint shouldn't be here, he's going to get swallowed by water, going to get _stuck_ in the ice with Steve. Clint's going to _die_ and Steve wishes to die with him.

"You're awake," he hears Clint say in the same way he's speaking to him when they're in the comfort of sheets and soft pillows. It's all it takes to snap him completely to reality, sound and images pushing awareness at Steve. He registers the room, the people in it, the way Clint's _tied to the ceiling_. "It's ok to hurt them, baby."

His body reacts before his mind does, snapping open the binds that hold his wrists, and soon he's breaking bones, bruising his knuckles against ribs and skulls faster than they can heal. It's just him and Lancas now, a gun pointing at him, in the midst of unmoving bodies and Steve breathes heavily, trying to calm the howling that grates his ears for long enough to take the gun away, have them safe.

The gun shifts toward where Clint is behind him and Steve moves, takes it from Lancas' hand and brings it to hit her temple before the echoes of the shot she's fired have time to dissipate along the walls of the room.

Everything stops.

There is no sound in the world except Clint's relieved exhale, no movement except the soft rustle of Clint's clothes.

Clint is alive.

Time stretches warmly around Steve, pulls at his muscles and digs into his bones.

Clint is alive.

The ache. The ache is back blooming into his chest.

Clint is alive.

His mind is floating somewhere warm, dragging his essence along, out of ice and into tenderness.

Steve _loves_.

It makes him dizzy in a way he hasn't felt since before the serum, this euphoria of knowing. It settles him, finally, as he allows himself to desire in a way he hasn't so far, and he's going to lay himself down in front of Clint.

He turns around and moves to help Clint down. He smiles at Steve as they stand there, so close that they share air. Steve feels his presence through the inch of space separating them, and he wants to let Clint know, tell him, show him everything-- but there's suddenly a hurt noise coming from Clint's throat as he looks at Steve's shoulder.

He follows his gaze downward, and pulls at the shirt. Ah, there it is, embedded in his collarbone, the bullet that's been trying to... trying to make Clint not alive. Such a small thing, with such devastating consequences. He pulls at the edges of the wound, trying to see the damage. The bone is not broken through, so it will heal quickly if he takes the metal out. His fingers slip through the blood when he tries, but then Clint's fingers are there, pulling it out. It's only natural that Clint holds his own death in his hands. Because Clint is alive and Steve loves. He rubs around the wound, pushing the edges inward to help it close faster and doesn't bother to stop the delight that wraps itself onto his spine.

"Ow," he smiles.

He can almost see Clint's mind working as his eyes dart around the room, but it doesn't matter. He's alive.

Clint chokes. "It was supposed to go through my head."

"But it didn't."

With a drawn out shudder, Clint's knees buckle beneath him and Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders to keep him up. The new points of contact swirl and melt into an increasing possessiveness as Clint turns desperate eyes at him. Steve gets it, oh how he gets it, that he could have died there.

"What did you do," Clint gasps as his fingers clutch the bloody fabric of Steve's shirt.

The way Clint can't have Steve dead either, it opens up the pleasant ache in his chest to bloom until it lodges in his throat. He wraps himself around Clint, shushes his worries. He wants to _tell him_ , but the wrong words come out. They're still true, though not what he's intended.

"If anybody's gonna break you, it's gonna be me."

But Clint laughs and it sounds like it hurts. "You're insane," he says, understanding what Steve's been trying to say. Relief coils around the euphoria swimming in his gut, and Steve feels solid again.

"You knew that already," he whispers close to Clint's ear. He can't wait to touch, it's making him vibrate inside his bones, but the anticipation is so much sweeter that rushing.

"Fuck," Clint breathes.

"Maybe later," he offers, and it pulls a genuine laughter from Clint.

Before he can say anything else, Carson rises to his feet, blood trickling between the fingers he's holding against his mouth. Clint sighs as their bubble of peace pops with the reality of the mission and Steve can't help but match it. At least Carson's going to have nightmares about this day, judging by the horror in his eyes.

"Told you not to do that," Clint says as he breaks out of the embrace.

Steve takes in the puddle of water, the empty bucket and an array of ice cubes at Carson's feet. So that's why he's wet with more than blood. He helps Clint tie Carson up in his place to the pipe running along the ceiling, amused at how apparently Clint's threatened them _with Steve_.

The door slams open and he turns to find Natasha in the doorway, hands on her hips as she looks at the bodies littering the room. "Hm," she says as if she were comparing it to the string of broken bones she's left behind her in the corridor. "Haven't lost your touch I see," she tells Clint.

"This one was all him," Clint corrects, pointing a thumb at Steve.

"Wow, Rogers, didn't know you had it in you."

Her voice lingers on each syllable, judging him, taking him apart bit by bit and analyzing him from the death he's caused. He can't help but admire that in her. She's horrifying in a way he'd only seen in Bucky, during the war, when his friend had thought nobody'd been looking. He shrugs, but then she raises an eyebrow at the wound still visible in his shoulder and his eyes shift to Clint on their own accord. He's still alive, yes, there he is, shrugging back at Natasha.

"Really," she crosses her arms and it's not a question.

"Apparently so," Clint returns and Steve suddenly understands what they've been talking about without words.

It's fine, she can know, he wants her to, so he offers "he's one of a kind" as an explanation when she turns his way.

"I. Know." She's threatening him in two syllables. Steve's even more impressed than he's been after the battle in New York.

"Status," Clint asks before Steve can say anything more.

"Got everyone out safely, Banner's calm, didn't change, got the armed grunts, weapons are secured, warheads disabled, found documents in Lancas' office detailing several more operations than we expected."

"And you did all that," Clint rolls his finger in the air, "before coming to get us? Where are we anyway?"

"Still in the basement," she says, "this place is a fucking fortress, it took us a while to locate you." She pauses, listening to her comm. "Fury wants to talk to you."

Natasha pulls the receiver out of her ear and hands it over to Clint. Steve can feel her eyes bore into the side of his head, but he is more interested in how Clint's expression changes as he listens to the director. A short while later he hands the comm back and Natasha looks like she knows what's been ordered as she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

"What did he want?" he asks, dreading the answer.

"They're bad people," comes back, voice uneven.

That's all the confirmation Steve needs. He watches Clint reluctantly bend over to pick up a gun and unlock its safety.

"How bad?" he plays along even though they both know how vile these people are.

Steve moves closer before he knows what he's doing, but once he takes a step, he's certain he can't let Clint carry this alone. He's promised, and it's time to make it true. Clint is alive and he won't let death mar the happiness brought to him.

"Very. Selling people against their will bad." Clint raises his arm, points the gun at Lancas' head as she lays unconscious on the floor.

It's the judgment and the sentence in one whisper, but Steve is going to be the executioner this time. So he wraps himself around Clint from behind, pulls him close with an arm around his waist. Here, he hopes Clint can lean on him the way Steve wants him to. He moves his other arm along Clint's extended one, wraps his fingers around the hand holding the gun.

It's the last bit of himself that Steve can give, and he wants Clint to understand, to _know_. The ache in his chest doubles with a smoldering heat as he presses his lips against Clint's temple, and pulls the trigger himself.

Clint stills in his arms.

There's a scream behind him, so he turns them both, shoots Carson clean through the head. He brings their arms down, eases the gun from Clint's fingers, and drops it to the floor.

There is no other pause, no waiting beat, before Clint leans heavily into him, head resting on Steve's shoulder. His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes fluttering half closed, half open. Steve lets his free hand run up Clint's chest and settles his fingers on the barren neck. It amazes him right through to his core how Clint's _letting_ him do this, with the blood of taken lives smearing his skin.

"What are you doing to me?"

Steve can feel Clint shiver in his arms as if Steve's touched him all the way inside his soul.

"I'm loving you, sweetheart."

It's all he can say, the truth. Clint's alive and Steve will keep him that way, clean of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, jeez, this has been the hardest to write from this side so far. I made my own chest hurt while trying to imagine what Steve was feeling. Haha. Ugh... I dunno, let me know if I nailed it.


	10. Chapter 10

Steve's never felt this sort of elation before. Hence, he's never felt the crash from one, either. It happens suddenly, one second they're pressed together, the next the door opens and Natasha is checking pulses.

It hits him, pulling the air out of his lungs, how he's used more force than necessary this time, that he could have curbed the violence, let the hired mercenaries live - broken beyond repair, but alive. He hasn't and it isn't his place to judge, but he's aware of making this decision the moment he saw the cruel spark in Carson's eyes. Human traffic is an abomination worse than what Steve's done in the war. Even so, he's killed them cleanly and swiftly, albeit painfully. Steve can't bring himself to muster a single ounce of regret.

And _that_ 's what frightens him. It's the sort of terror that claws itself out of his bowels and gnaws at his skin until he's raw. It helps that Clint keeps his hands on him, but there's still a voice in his head chanting 'killer, killer, killer, killer' in between bitter cackles. He can't stop the 'what if's either, scenarios of rejection and hatred. There's a mocking voice in the back of his mind, relentlessly whispering that perhaps Clint's going to slip away, after all, that after _seeing_ Steve, he's going to be disgusted. Clint's hand never leaves his wrist.

There are people milling around them, but Steve can barely react to them, trying so hard to not scream at his own thoughts. He's aware, painfully aware, how there's no basis for the fear lodged in the pit of his stomach that travels down his thighs, crawls up into the base of his skull and pierces sharply there. So Steve breathes through it, looks again at the fine spray of blood that stains Clint's shirt at his shoulder and collar, traveling up the side of his face. He remembers this one clearly, when Clint had driven a blade through an artery in someone's neck earlier. He replays it over and over in his head, reminds himself Clint's just as lacking in innocence, just as killer.

Someone is talking to him, but he can't understand the words. Clint's there, too, his face devoid of what Steve fears. It brings reality into focus and he realizes he's smiling only when Clint returns it. Someone is poking at his shoulder and he bats their hands away, before taking in the medics that surround them. Clint lets them look, but doesn't let them clean the blood. It doubles the terror, irrationally so, until Steve can't take it anymore and he shuts his mind down. It quiets the doubt and the fear, but it also opens up the door he's been trying to keep shut for the past few days.

Across from them on the quinjet, Bucky and Peggy settle in on Natasha's side. They're both in uniform, as the last time he's seen either of them, young and alive. He's never dreamed of both at the same time before, not even when awake.

Clint is still holding his wrist, keeping him in place, making sure he doesn't drift too far. The ache is back.

"Steve, what are you doing?" Peggy asks, tone gentler than usual.

"I don't know what I'm doing." His throat feels like sand.

Bucky lounges in the chair, smirk set upon his face, as Peggy crosses her legs and leans her elbows on her knee.

"Of course you do," she insists and Steve shakes his head. "Look at you," she continues regardless, "and look at him." Peggy pauses to tip her head at Clint before glancing at Bucky and he just nods along, confirming it.

Steve lets the air rush out of his lungs through his nose and leans his head back, closes his eyes. "What if I damage him more?"

"Steve." Her voice is serious as she speaks. "He talked to your _hallucination_ for an entire night."

"True, I was there," Bucky supplies unhelpfully and it pulls a short laugh out of Steve.

He rubs a palm over his face even though his hand doesn't move from where it rests in his lap. "I feel like a train ran over me. Everything's happening so fast."

"Right," Peggy mocks and he can hear her crossing her arms, "you didn't have time to _pine_ enough yet."

Steve kicks Bucky in the shin for his cackle.

"It took what? Two months for you to fall for me?" she continues unperturbed. "What makes you think two weeks--"

"And three days," comes from Bucky.

"--is any different?"

Steve laughs then, light. "I fell for you in six seconds. That's how long it took for you to punch, what was his name, Hodge."

"Don't start him on that again," Bucky whines and Steve falls into the companionship of warm memories.

~

The moment they step out of the quinjet on top of Stark's tower, when Bucky and Peggy dissipate into nothingness again, reality returns to focus. It brings back uncertainties and the fears Steve hasn't managed to leave in Kuala Lumpur. The sky is still dark, the tendrils of the dawn barely visible around the skyline as he follows Clint inside. He doesn't know how they got out of debriefing, nor does he care. Bruce slides around them silently and disappears down a hallway, and then Clint pulls them both into Steve's bathroom.

He lets the stillness of the moment numb his mind as Clint undresses him slowly, button by button, the only sound the rustle of clothes as he fills the hamper. He traces the lines of Clint's naked body before him, standing there unconcerned. They're both stained, sickeningly so, but then Clint's fingertips brush over the wound still red on Steve's collarbone, a deliberate caress that pulls a shiver from him. The want floods him again, turning into desire to cherish until all he can do is inhale around it. He wants to touch back, but he's got nothing left to give, so he waits, letting Clint take his time. Even though it's quite clear where this is going, there's still a part of Steve that can't help but wait for express permission.

Clint scrubs him down, washes away the world and the death, rubs at his skin until Steve feels more naked than he's ever been before. Clint cleans him, watching, _seeing_. When he places the soap in Steve's hand and offers his body in return, Steve shivers with the relief that runs through him. He knows his eyes are leaking on their own under the hot water, but Clint just wipes at his cheeks, says nothing.

He moves quickly, doesn't linger over Clint's muscles and joints the way he wants to, finality drawing closer with each swipe. He has to ask one more time, one _last_ time. This is it, a moment suspended in warmth, the last warning. The answer he needs. He leans on the tiles, traps his hands behind him so he won't be tempted to stop Clint if he wants to go. He breaths in.

"Clint, if you walk out there with me, I'm going to have you. If you wanna run, do it now."

"Not running," comes over a whisper, an extended hand, and a smile.

There's not enough air to fill his aching lungs as he moves to take Clint's fingers, the world pulsing slowly around him. By the time Clint's dried them both, the reality of his answer settles in, warming Steve's insides more than the shower had. So he moves, wraps himself around Clint, chest to chest, and walks him back into the bedroom, still thrown by how Clint trusts him.

They fall on the bed and Steve doesn't stop himself from touching this time. He traces his fingers around the edges of Clint's features, the lines of his eyebrows, the edges of his eyelids, the curve of his lips, until his hand rests on Clint's cheek.

"I've been wanting," he confesses, and _takes._ Takes Clint's lips with every bit of want that's been running through him, unwrapping it for Clint to see, to taste, and he savors the breathless pants he receives.

"I know," Clint exhales when Steve pulls away for air.

But he doesn't.

"No, you don't," he whispers, "you really, _really_ don't." He presses his lips on Clint's chest, speaks into his skin. "Nobody ever saw me. Not before, when I was weak, not after. They never saw me, just the carcass. This corpse I live in, like a ghost."

Because he is, a ghost, just like Peggy, just like Bucky, his unborn children and lost lives. He breathes, calms himself before he can ruin the night with the shadows of the past.

"So when we were fighting the aliens," he continues when Clint is silent beneath him, his fingers sliding encouragingly through Steve's hair, "and you were up there, _seeing_ everything, all I could think about was how I wanted to be watched like that. I was awake in the future for two months then, and I was still invisible. You can't imagine how badly I wanted for someone to see me, for _you_ to see me."

He should stop, but he can't. It's not enough for Clint to really understand. He lets his forehead fall on Clint's chest as he tries to level his breathing.

"I tried to stay away because I wasn't sure if you'd be real or a dream. When all I could give you was insanity and death, how could I make you look at me? Yet I wanted to _take_ , everything. Your attention, your sight, you. That morning," he chokes, "you were here and I couldn't remember _any of it_ and it was--"

Air runs out with a shudder out of Steve and he stops for a second, trying to gather himself, but he doesn't have time before Clint pulls at his chin to look up.

"Steve, take whatever you want, it's yours. _I'm yours_."

These shaken words, spoken out loud, sincere to their core, are suddenly drowning all his worries. They're so clear that he can't even begin to ask himself if he's misunderstood. Something breaks free, snaps the bonds of what's been holding him back. He shifts off Clint, leans on an elbow so he can take Clint in, revels in the feeling of his fingertips touching Clint's skin wherever he can reach. It fills him up, this expanding serenity, until he's ready to burst with it.

Steve leans back down to kiss Clint again, devoid of desperation. He surprises even himself with how careful he is, and turns it even softer, a tender glide of lips, when Clint holds onto his arms with trembling fingers. He breaks away to look at Clint, because he's been painfully _hoping_ for something just like this, so Steve needs to burn the moment into his memory with all his senses. The rising sun sifts through the windows, catching on Clint's eyelashes, and he lays there breathing into Steve, a couple of water drops forgotten on his throat. His face is open, and Steve slides all the way through, lets himself be pulled in. Clint is beautiful.

The elation inside him twirls until he can't contain it, and he laughs with it, wordlessly. He keeps laughing into the kiss Clint claims from him, lets his lips part. He runs his hand down Clint's front and yes, _thank you yes please_ , Clint's hard, Clint wants it just as badly as Steve does. He can't help but laugh again at the moan he pulls out of Clint as he strokes him, can't help rake his fingers down Clint's chest and belly, over his nipples, into the dips of his hips.

Steve takes.

"Look at you, sweetheart," he murmurs, distracted with turning Clint over, with how his hard cock fits into the back of Clint's thighs as Steve kneels over him. He's reminded how Clint's never shared a bed like this, and it refuels his desire to make it good, unforgettable. "Untainted," he leans over to whisper in Clint's ear, " _mine_."

He pulls at Clint's hands, stretches him out on the bed. He wants to make this like nothing Clint's ever experienced before.

"I'm going to open you, Clint, push myself inside, and fuck you until you scream."

There's an involuntary buck against the bed and Clint shudders beneath him before resting his forehead on the mattress. Steve doesn't hold back the smile that pulls at his lips as he kisses the back of Clint's neck. He moves up, grabs the supplies that had been sitting in his nightstand hopefully for a while now.

"Is this brand good?" he asks, showing Clint the bottle of lube. He doesn't really have much experience with this century's preferred products. "JARVIS said it was recommended or so."

Clint shrugs, but there's also a shadow over his face, and he's suddenly grabbing for Steve, pulling at his arm. Steve knows this, it's not exactly fear, but the sort of trepidation at making oneself trust, to accept someone else inside their own body. Steve's felt it himself, so he hurries back over Clint, lets him feel his entire weight as he kisses lightly at Clint's temple and cheek.

"Hey," he whispers, "calm down, sweetheart, what's wrong?"

It has the wanted effect, as Clint exhales. "I don't know," he says against the sheets, so low that Steve can barely hear him, "don't stop."

"Oh, I won't," he promises. "We can pause as many times you want, I'll wait you out, but you're not leaving this bed before I'm done with you."

Maybe it's a little bit too possessive, but Clint goes boneless beneath him and it looks a lot like relief.

"That's right," Steve presses his mouth on Clint's temple again, "not letting you run, not letting you go."

It's the right thing to say, it seems, as a small whimper passes Clint's lips. Steve runs his hands down his back, stretches him further on the bed, delighted by his pliancy.

"I've never done this before," comes back.

"I know," Steve's so aware of it, it's making him leak into the sheets. "I'll make sure you never forget me," and that pulls a small laugh out of Clint.

He goes back to placing kisses over the expanse of skin beneath him, pulls gently at Clint's legs until he's wide open. It makes him smile, how Clint buries his face in the comforter, holds onto it and lets it happen. Clint is going to remember this tomorrow. No matter how experienced he is with sex, Steve will make sure that _this_ stays with him, from the first brush of fingertips to the tiny traces of bashfulness that, not matter how old, still happen when spread open in the most intimate way.

"I think," Clint rasps just as Steve finally runs his palm warmly over his balls, "that you're going to break me," and he moans into the sheet when Steve presses on just the right spot. It makes him grin.

He grabs the tiny bottle, squeezes lubricant all over his fingers before leaning over Clint again, rubs his thumb over his entrance. "That's the point, so no one can ever have you but me." His voice is breaking with want and his heart beats a mile a minute as he sees his thumb disappearing easily inside.

"Fuck," Clint's muscles clench around him, and Steve needs to take a moment to breathe, because he's going to come right then and there only from imagining Clint squeezing him that tightly.

"In a minute baby," Steve grins, anticipation twisting in his gut. Clint huffs out a laugh, relaxes minutely, so Steve starts moving, coaxing his muscles into yielding to the pressure. "You're doing good," he whispers, matches Clint little breathless moans with his own, "so good," he croons as he searches for the nub of pleasure there. When he finds it, Clint's entire body spasms, shaking with the force of it, and Steve can't help but imagine how that would feel when buried _inside_.

Clint looks at him then, and Steve wants to tell him how beautiful he is, how amazing he feels, but he has no words for it. So he caresses the nub again, pulling tremors out of him, before pouring lube directly on Clint, adding fingers. Clint's silent, but so responsive, alternating between choked breaths and vulnerable clutching at the sheets. Steve know exactly how that goes, and it makes him pleased at how he's managed to give this feeling to Clint.

It's time, and the muscles of his abdomen flutter with excitement as he cleans his fingers, puts on a condom. He checks, and doesn't stop the happy sound spilling from his throat when he finds Clint's still hard. Steve stretches out, grabs at Clint's hands, weights him down with his entire body. It's not the easiest way to have a first time, but he wants Clint to _feel_ him, he wants Clint to remember who's giving _this_ to him.

He pushes in, scraping his chest over Clint's back, feeling the heat envelop him inch by wonderful inch until he's flush against Clint's thighs and he can rest his forehead on the sheets next to Clint's cheek, catch his breath. Steve can see the stunned expression he's wearing and it makes him grin.

He moves again, gives Clint the burn and the pleasure all at once, counters it with a bite into Clint's shoulder. He's rewarded by another sharp inhale, but the air's not coming out.

"Breathe, Clint, breathe," he says, pulling out and pushing in, and this time he presses on Clint's chest, makes him exhale. "Come on, sweetheart, stay with me," he pleas, doesn't want to have him faint, doesn't want to stop.

It works, and there's an universe of sounds coming from Clint, quiet and low, but almost tangible as he shakes around Steve. He's careful to touch him just the right way to keep him wanting more, to swirl him into pleasure. Clint feels like a caress around his soul, a blanket warming his insanity, and Steve loves. Oh, _how_ he loves, that the feeling floods him, rushing in a wave down his arms and into the pit of his stomach. Clint gets gradually louder, and then he screams, pushing against the mattress, muffled sound ripped right from his throat. It catches Steve unaware as it suddenly pulls him over the edge and he lets his mind white out, laying limp over Clint.

"Shh," he whispers at the small sounds making their way out of Clint's throat, "it's good, you're great," he runs his hand over Clint's arm, "feels amazing." Steve loses track of the nonsense he croons, as Clint relaxes slowly beneath and around him.

"You asked JARVIS about that, too," Clint mumbles when Steve pulls up and off the bed to remove the condom, and he doesn't even point at Steve, just halfway lifts a finger.

"I asked where to buy and he made fun of me," he distracts Clint enough to clean him with a tissue, careful not to rub over sensitive places, but Clint still hides his face for a second. It makes Steve smile. "He made me measure myself with a ruler," he continues and Clint laughs.

He pushes at Clint until he flips over, cleans his belly and then pulls him under the covers, arms itching to wrap themselves around him. They're facing each other, legs tangled, and Clint buries his nose, like so many times before, in Steve's chest. The ache is back, but it's sated this time, interspersed with delight.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to sit tomorrow," comes after a few minutes.

Steve laughs at that. Yes, he remembers how the first day after feels, and no, he's not sorry. "Good," he says and receives a half-hearted smack for it.

"Next time's my turn, see who can and who can't sit then," Clint grumbles.

Good luck with that, he thinks, serum took that away. "Unless you plan on putting your fist in me, I won't feel it for more than an hour."

At that, Clint's head snaps up and he chokes, harder than he's ever choked before at Steve's antics. There so much happiness bubbling out of him as he laughs and pats Clint's back, that Steve doesn't know what to do with it. He gets pulled down, Clint kissing him in retaliation until he's breathless again.

He's holding tightly, watching Clint sleep when he looks up and the bed is empty beside them. Everything is blissfully quiet, early morning sun flooding the room in a warm glow. Steve feels himself falling asleep, sliding into slumber for the first time since the ice, and the ghosts are silent in his head.

~

A loud knock snaps Steve's eyelids open and he needs a beat to take in his surroundings, the room, Clint splayed over his chest, burrowing closer as his sleep is interrupted.

"Come on, Capsicle, open up. JARVIS, open the door." Tony's voice drifts with impatience from the hallway.

"I'm sorry, sir, but privacy protocols prevent me from opening the door at this moment," comes back.

"What privacy protocols..."

Steve tunes Tony out as he moves away from the door, most likely toward the kitchen down the hall, as Clint grins against his skin, awake now.

"I love you, JARVIS," he says as thank you for not letting Tony in, and Steve shares that sentiment.

"I'm wounded," he jokes.

"I love you, too," Clint pats at his middle and Steve freezes.

He must have joked, he's never imagined, or hoped--

"More than JARVIS," comes next and-- and-- he's serious.

"Asshole," Steve says when he can breathe.

It's too much to take, his bones too large and his skin too tight and it hurts how hard he is right now. There so much need that floods him, that all he can do is pour it between Clint's lips as he presses him back. Clint's still loose enough when he checks, and Steve knows he's got the stupidest grin on his face right now. But he doesn't care as Clint lets himself be rearranged on the bed, soft and pliant with sleep, eyelids fluttering closed.

There's a condom still on the comforter next to him, and it's wet enough so he wraps Clint around him. He places a hand over Clint's mouth, just in case someone's lingering on the hallway and pushes right in. There's breathless pants and throaty moans, and Clint's quiet, but not silent. Steve drinks it in, inhales his pleasure, gives in to the broken pleas for release spilling out of Clint's lips. It's so quick that his ears ring when he comes, and he wraps a hand around Clint, strokes until he feels the heated flesh pulse, coating his fingers.

When he pulls off, Clint's still shaking in his arms, but he looks so blissed, he doesn't even react when Steve almost carries him into the bathroom for another shower. It's in the middle of Steve washing him, that reality seems to catch up with Clint and he starts laughing, a really happy sound bubbling out that Steve can't help but match, all his worries ridiculous in retrospect, all his wants appeased.

~

Later, after they dress and make their way toward the noisy kitchen, Clint stops to lean into a wall, hands on his knees. There's a look of surprised realization on his face and Steve gives him this moment, walks into the kitchen by himself.

Half the counter is covered in pizza boxes, Natasha and Bruce on one side, Tony and Thor on the other. Steve takes the empty stool at the end of the counter distractedly, replies to the hellos. He's half turned toward the door and only when Clint walks in does he notice there's no other chair near him, only on the other side of the island.

Stark offers a loud, "Goodmorning, Merida, nice of you to grace us with your presence," and everyone's looking at Clint who freezes in the doorway.

There's a moment when Steve's breath hitches in his throat, wondering if Clint will acknowledge their connection, but then he slides right into the 'v' of his legs, open in front of him where he sits, and leans into his thigh. It's Clint taking possession, trusting Steve to hold him up, and he lets his head fall on Clint's shoulder to hide his relief. A grin spreads freely on his face at the surprised silence of their team mates, broken only by Bruce's muffled laughter.

"So, doc," Clint says, completely ignoring Tony's jab, "about that naked yoga pose you were going to show us..."

And fuck. Steve might cry a little, but if anyone would ask, he'd just blame it on the laughter.

~End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are.
> 
> Thank you for the encouragements, for reading, for bearing with me through Steve's inner turmoil (and I'm kinda pleased that it didn't seep through into Clint's perspective - Steve's a private person, ok? he likes to brood in silence, hah).
> 
> So now we're wondering what's with the naked yoga, it's all over the place. Also, there are no privacy protocols against Tony, if you noticed, so can we ask ourselves how JARVIS got sentient?
> 
> *Smirk*


End file.
